


Tragedy!

by fulminating_gold



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cold Boys in Flares, Eventual Smut, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Homophobia AU, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Velvet Jumpsuit Wearing Slut Thomas Jopson, a literal disco inferno, campy 70's horror flick au, classic rock references ad nauseam, corporate culture, creature feature murder mystery au, gore of varying intensities, modern (ish) setting, scooby doo-esque hauntings, sir john franklin's hot hot leg, softcore horror, the absolute sensory overload that is 70's fashion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulminating_gold/pseuds/fulminating_gold
Summary: September, 1979.Sir John Franklin, regional director of Terrebus Inc., has cherry-picked a selection of his staff to attend a morale-boosting corporate retreat at a mountain lodge in the beautiful Canadian Rockies. It promises to be a relaxing weekend for everyone – but all is not as it seems. When mysterious occurrences start happening around the lodge, some of the staff begin to suspect that it is haunted, and the sudden disappearance of a senior staff member only exacerbates everyone’s fears. And with a freak blizzard threatening to snow them in, the Terrebus team has no choice but to face the mysterious forces of the lodge.Will they be able to survive the blizzard long enough to get help and solve the mystery of what’s stalking them? Or will the Terrebus corporate retreat end in bloody tragedy?
Relationships: Francis Crozier & James Fitzjames, Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Thomas Jopson & Edward Little, Thomas Jopson/Edward Little
Comments: 30
Kudos: 57





	1. Top Of The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warnings, etc.

****

**_Such a feeling’s coming over me_ **

**_There is wonder in most everything I see_ **

**_Not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eyes_ **

**_And I won’t be surprised if it’s a dream_ **

****

_20 September 1979, 2:35 pm_

_Alberta, Canada_

“Dundy, if you’re going to vomit, just say something and we’ll pull over.”

James twisted around in his seat, watching his friend’s face shift from gray to green and back again. On either side of him, Fairholme and Gore scooted a little further away, giving him a few inches’ breathing room. Gore reached down and discreetly cracked his window open.

“You alright?” James asked, raising his brows at LeVesconte. Swallowing, Dundy nodded, sniffing as cold air flooded the car.

“James, the map,” Sir John said on James’ left. “I need my navigator.”

Gore gingerly patted Dundy on the knee. Now reasonably certain his staff were not in imminent danger of being hurled on, James turned back around, fiddling with the massive map spread open on his lap until he’d relocated their position.

“The turn-off should be coming up soon, shouldn’t it?” Sir John asked.

“Give me a moment.” James turned the map around, crumpling the bottom half as he traced a finger along the unsteady red line denoting the highway. “At least the Canadians use the metric system,” he muttered, giving thanks, not for the first time, that Sir John hadn’t chosen an American location for the retreat. “You’ll turn in about four kilometers,” he said to Sir John, finally pinpointing the right spot, hidden beneath a dried coffee stain. “There’ll be a sign.”

“Crozier has the same map, doesn’t he?” Gore asked from the backseat. James glanced over his shoulder and saw him twisting around to peer out the rear windshield, squinting into the snowy haze to see the road behind them. “I can’t see the terror anymore.”

“Francis is better qualified to drive these roads than even I am,” Sir John assured him. “And he has a fine navigator in Mr. Blanky – we probably should have had them lead!”

“Maybe not in the car they’ve nicknamed ‘the terror,’” James muttered.

“That was an exaggeration,” Sir John said. “These Pontiacs are perfectly steady, made for adventure! Why else would they call it a ‘Safari’?”

As he spoke, Sir John turned around a bend in the road and skidded abruptly on a patch of ice, swinging the rear end of the car in a wide arc towards a ditch on the side of the road. James pitched forward onto the dash, Gore and Fairholme grabbed their door handles, and Dundy clapped a hand to his mouth as the green rushed back to his face. Spinning the steering wheel, Sir John pulled them away from the ditch, only to overcorrect towards the other side, which, to James’ alarm, terminated in an un-railed sheer drop down the side of the mountain, barely an arm’s length from the edge of the road. 

“Come along, now,” Sir John said cheerfully to the car, reefing the wheel back round the other way. “Back on track, there’s a good girl.”

James braced himself against the door. “Sir John –”

“Hold on now, James – there we are.” With much protest from the brakes, Sir John finally managed to bring the car back under control, swinging it unsteadily back onto the center of the road. He released a deep breath as the precipice on James’ side fell out of view, then calmly sat back and reached over to turn up the volume on the radio. The _Carpenters_ filtered softly through the car, the cheery melody making a sharp contrast to the horrified expressions on the faces of his staff. Reluctantly, James released the door handle and turned around to look at the three men in the back of the car.

“James,” LeVesconte said, clutching his midsection. “I think we need to pull over.”

“Sir John.” James waved a hand, but the car was already slowing to a crawl and drifting over to the side of the road.

“Out you go, Mr. LeVesconte,” Sir John said. “This is a rental, after all.”

Gore threw open the door and stepped out as Dundy hurtled past him. Sighing, James folded up the map and set it aside, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Might be best if we all stretched our legs,” he said.

Outside, James shivered as the frigid mountain air kicked up snow flurries from the pine trees around them, throwing them back in his eyes. The trees swayed and bent in the wind, hissing softly as their limbs brushed against one another. James sniffed, tucking his chin down into his turtleneck, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Behind him he heard Dundy retch, and he walked politely away, circling the car to go and stand at the edge of the cliff on the other side of the road.

Before him sprawled the Canadian Rockies, an interminable sea of jagged, pine-blanketed rock rising and falling like swells on the sea. It took his breath away; this was day two of the long drive up to the lodge – day three of his first ever trip across the pond – but the awe-inspiring effect of the mountains had not lost its power over him. Their savage beauty recalled something of the old pioneer days; James could just imagine himself an intrepid explorer heading into wholly unknown territory, seeking fortune and glory.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

James turned as Sir John came up beside him, half-swallowed by a hand knit red scarf. He blew out a sigh, watching the cloud of his breath fog and dissipate in the air, and nodded.

“It’s shocking, that places like this still exist,” he said.

Sir John nodded sagely. “I remember when I first came here, to scout locations for the company,” he said. “Even roads like this one were scarce. There were still parts of the Arctic Circle that hadn’t been fully mapped out yet – can you imagine that? Real _terra incognita.”_

“I assume that’s why you chose this place for the retreat,” James said.

“Quite so,” said Sir John. “It’ll do everyone good to spend a little time in nature. It’s a bit rustic, but that’s what we signed up for. The adventure of a lifetime, eh?” Grinning broadly, he clapped James on the shoulder.

James smiled, glancing back at Dundy, who still stood bent over the ditch with Gore patting him gently on the back.

“Not everyone’s suited for this kind of adventure,” he said.

Sir John followed his line of sight. “He’ll be fine,” he said. “But we can give him a moment – this’ll be a good chance to rendezvous with Francis. Speaking of which –”

He and James turned back towards the road as the crunch of snow beneath tires heralded the approach of the other station wagon, unquestionably the uglier of the two, with its wood grain paneling and rust-orange paint job. It pulled up next to their smaller blue car and came to a gentle halt. The driver’s door opened, and Crozier stepped out, frowning deeply.

“Everything alright?” he shouted over the breeze.

Sir John stuck a thumbs-up in the air. Cupping his hands around his mouth, James shouted: “Just taking a break to stretch our legs!”

Francis slammed the door and trudged across the road to join them, ducking his head against the snow. James set his shoulders back, bracing for impact. He’d managed to avoid talking to Francis since they’d set out from Edmonton that morning, and he’d really been hoping to continue that winning streak until they reached the lodge itself.

Francis watched Dundy bending over the ditch as he walked over.

“What’s his problem?” he asked, jerking his head in that direction.

“Just a little carsick,” James said.

Francis nodded. “I’ll say.” He lifted his gaze, squinting up at James, and then glanced over at the car. “I saw you skid on the ice,” he said.

“She’s fine,” Sir John said. “Just lost her footing a little. How’s the terror?”

Francis scoffed. “It’ll make the climb, though it’s done a fine job of scaring the piss out of my staff.” He glanced over his shoulder at the orange monstrosity. Through the windshield, James could see Francis’ junior execs, Irving, Little, and Hodgson, crammed into the first row of seats, and behind them his personal secretary, Jopson, sandwiched between the two interns. They looked slightly less vomitous than Sir John’s passengers, but only marginally.

“Take heart, Francis,” quipped Sir John. “We should be at the lodge soon, and I hear they have fondue!”

“I hope so,” James said, referring to the lodge, and not the fondue. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”

“You’d better get back in the car then,” Francis said. “Wouldn’t want you to lose a finger.”

James’ lip curled, but Sir John laughed, breaking the tension before it could build into another shouting match, like the incident at the airport.

“Come on, boys,” he said, clapping each of them on the shoulder. “Let’s finish this trek, shall we? We’re close now.”

They started back for the cars, Sir John shouting for Dundy and Gore to get back in, if Dundy was feeling quite well. James returned to the station wagon and pulled open his door, but as he prepared to step in his gaze caught on something red poking out from a drift just ahead of where the car had spun out. Frowning, he walked over and brushed off the layer of fresh snow that had settled atop the object.

“What’s that?”

James glanced up. Francis was hovering behind him, brows furrowed as he stared at the thing in James’ hands. Straightening, James handed it over. It was a makeshift sign, constructed of a rough-cut piece of plywood and hand painted.

“Keep out?” Francis read. “Keep out of what?”

“Not sure.” James looked up, scanning the tightly packed trees to try and see into the woods. “Someone’s private property, perhaps?”

Francis shook his head. “No private property up here, not until the lodge grounds. We’re still technically in the national park.”

“A restoration site, then,” James suggested. Francis made a noncommittal noise, studying the sign intently.

“Are you two going to dawdle all day?” Sir John called from the station wagon. “Hop to it, James, I still need my navigator!”

James shrugged. “It’s probably nothing,” he said. “It was half-buried anyway. A warning can’t be that important if it’s placed where nobody can see it.”

Francis frowned, dropping the sign back into the drift. They returned to their cars, James dropping into the heated cab with a sigh of relief.

“Right.” Sir John turned the ignition back on, and the car roared back to life. “Off we go, then. You ship-shape back there, LeVesconte?”

“Tip top, sir,” said Dundy weakly.

“Excellent.”

Sir John shifted gears. Snow and gravel crunched beneath the car’s tires as he guided its ponderous weight back onto the road, and then they were back in motion, slowly picking their way up the increasingly steep and curved mountainside. James glanced in the rearview, monitoring the terror’s progress behind them, and couldn’t help noticing the little bright spot of the sign poking out of the drift, stark and out of place. Against the pure white snow, the sloppy red lettering had a rather garish appearance, like an open wound, like blood on the ice.

James shivered. Averting his gaze, he focused on the road ahead. It was absolutely foolish of him to be making up anxieties – this was a company retreat, for Christ’s sake. He had more to fear from Sir John’s quarterly profit goals than some creepy old sign in the snow.

Flipping open the stained and wrinkled map, James cleared his throat, relocating their position.

“Turn-off in three kilometers, Sir John.”

**______________**

**_There she stood in the doorway_ **

**_I heard the mission bell_ **

**_And I was thinking to myself_ **

**_This could be heaven, or this could be hell_ **

****

_4:45 pm_

_King William Lodge – Approximately 50 km North of Jasper National Park_

_This,_ thought Tom Jopson as he nearly tripped over the narrow stairs for the third time now, _is supreme bullshit._

Struggling under the weight of his own bags plus Crozier’s, he gingerly stuck a foot out, feeling in front of him for the next stair. Peering around the tower of luggage balanced precariously in his arms, he could just make out the second floor landing a few feet ahead of him. He sent up a silent prayer that he wouldn’t trip at the last moment and send his boss’s personal belongings flying.

Tom squared his shoulders, shifting the weight of the bags off of his forearms. Maybe if he turned sideways a little – no, that only made it worse. 

_God damn it,_ he swore inwardly. _Nobody said there would only be one concierge. Place as big as this should be expected to have a larger staff than four people. I am personal secretary to a senior executive,_ not _a pack animal._

A stray lock of hair fell down over Tom’ eye. He blew at it impatiently, hauling his burden up the next stair. He’d barely set foot in this damned lodge – hadn’t been here five minutes, the snow hadn’t even settled on the cars yet – and already he was fetching and carrying. If he’d known that he’d been invited on this trip simply to play bellboy, he might have reconsidered coming. An all-expenses-paid trip across the pond sounded nice in theory, but that was only if one was attending as a guest, and not as an employee. Tom was beginning to think that the temptation wasn’t worth the hassle.

The final stair now; Tom could see that he’d reached the level of the balcony. He wrinkled his nose, concentrating hard on not letting the bottommost suitcase slip out of his grip. Flexing his sore fingers, he attempted to tip the bag back into place.

“Come on, you little –”

“Can I help you with that?”

Thomas swore, jumping at the unexpected voice before him. The suitcase on top of the mountain slipped, and Thomas felt its weight lift as it toppled to the floor, followed by all but the one he actually had in his grip. He squeezed his eyes shut as the cases crashed and banged against one another, the whole process comedically loud and drawn out.

“Fuck me.”

Thomas opened one eye, squinting at the source of the voice. In front of him, Edward Little stood with a small carry-on in his hands, grimacing apologetically, his face as bright red as his checkered flannel shirt. He tried for a smile when Tom looked at him, holding out the bag in his hands.

“I caught this one,” he offered sheepishly.

Tom relaxed, the impending string of obscenities on his tongue dissolving like sugar. He smiled, letting his tense shoulders slump.

“Well, hullo there, Ned.”

Little’s face flushed an even brighter shade of red, a response that was immensely gratifying to Tom. He had only known Ned since he’d joined Crozier’s staff a few months ago – their first external hire in years – but it hadn’t taken very long for the shy junior executive to catch Tom’s eye. He couldn’t help it; he had a thing for strong, silent types. He would be lying if he tried to claim that Ned’s presence on this trip hadn’t been part of the incentive for him to come.

“Trying to break all the boss’s whiskey?” Tom teased, raising his brows at the luggage belonging to Crozier. “There’s expensive stuff in there, you know.”

“Oh god.” Ned blanched. “I’m so sorry, Thomas, I didn’t think –”

Tom laughed. “S’okay, Ned, I’m just giving you shit.”

Ned’s face underwent a series of shifts, passing through confusion and back into embarrassment. He fiddled with the bag in his hands, his nervous fingers tightening and relaxing around the handle.

“Well,” he said, shuffling his feet. “I’m sorry anyway, for scaring you. Can I help you with these?”

Tom shrugged. “Sure, if you’d like.” He grinned. “You can take the heavy ones.” Pushing up the sleeves of his silk shirt – a woman’s blouse, though he’d never tell Ned that – Tom stooped to re-build his tower of bags while Ned knelt beside him and helped make sure it didn’t fall over again.

“This place sure is impressive,” Ned said, glancing up at the high ceiling arching above them. Tom followed his gaze, wrinkling his nose at the stripped log walls, the massive totem poles flanking the staircase, the chandelier constructed of deer antlers.

“That’s one word for it,” he said.

Ned pushed back on the suitcases as the tower leaned a little too far to the right. “Not a fan of the rustic look?”

“It’s not that.” Tom placed the final bag and stood slowly, watching the bags wobble and then settle in his arms. “It’s just…I’m not really the outdoorsy type.”

“Why’d you come then?” Ned blurted, apparently without realizing that Tom might not have had a choice in the matter. He bent to collect the remaining bags, shoving two of them under one arm and gripping the other one by the handle. He looked to Tom for direction, and Tom nodded down the corridor immediately behind them.

“I’m taking these to Crozier’s room,” he said, deliberately refusing to answer Ned’s question. “The Bear Room, I’m told it’s called.” 

They walked down the corridor, scanning the doors for the one matching the bear-shaped key fob in Tom’s pocket. They found it right away – the wooden plaque marking the door exactly matched the fob.

“Committed to their theme, aren’t they?” Ned joked. Tom scoffed.

“Tell me about it.” Kneeling, he set down his bags and fished in his pocket for the key. It stuck a bit in the lock, but with a gentle wiggle he managed to get it to turn and pushed the door open. Cool, musty air met them; another gloomy reminder of how short-staffed the lodge was.

“They could have turned the bloody heat on,” Ned muttered, setting the two large cases down at the foot of the bed. “These are Crozier’s, right?”

Tom nodded, depositing the only piece of his tower belonging to his boss on the bed. “The rest,” he said proudly, “are all mine.”

Ned took the top few cases off the remaining tower, staggering a little under their unexpected weight.

“Jesus, what’ve you got in here? Rocks?”

“That one’s shoes,” Tom said. “I think. It could also be toiletries.”

Ned frowned. “You have a separate bag just for toiletries?”

Tom blinked innocently. “You don’t?” Hoisting up his other bags, he brushed past Ned and went back out into the corridor, looking now for the room with a hawk on the door.

“Which one’s yours, by the way?” he asked Ned. Ned frowned, his dark brows coming together as he pondered the question.

“It’s a fish, I think,” he said. “Trout? That’s it – the Trout Room.”

Tom’s gaze snagged on a door plaque – a trout, its curved tail pointing to the door next to it, the plaque on which was a bird in flight. He smiled to himself.

“Looks like we’re neighbors, then,” he said, trying to pack as much meaning as possible into his tone. Ned’s face colored, and he cleared his throat, altering his grip on the suitcases in his hands.

Tom unlocked his room and kicked the door open, dropping his bags on the bed by the light spilling in through the open door. Ned set down his own cargo by the threshold and flipped the light switch, revealing a space that could only be accurately described as ‘rustic.’ Terrebus’ North American representatives had gone all out on the mountain theme, and the room was a nauseating mix of uniform corporate luxury and frontier asceticism. Rough-hewn yellow wood and Navajo-inspired prints dominated the décor, with an ominous pair of mounted antlers serving as the crown jewel. It smelled of mothballs, with a hint of what once might have been pine, and there was a draft.

Ned’s brows went up.

“Interesting.”

Tom sniffed, tossing back his hair.

“That’s one word for it,” he said. “Shall we have to sleep in furs, do you think?”

Eyeing the scratchy-looking wool blanket on the bed, Ned made a noncommittal noise. “You may want to.”

Tom laughed, flopping back onto the bed with a flounce. He ran his hands across the blanket, bounced on the stiff mattress. Ned stood by the door, watching him, and Tom couldn’t help but cast a flirtatious look up at him through his lashes. He leaned back on his hands, letting his blouse fall open at the throat.

“Might not be so bad,” he said. “Nothing like a little fresh mountain air to –” He tried to recall Sir John’s original words. “— _foster workplace bonding_.”

Ned’s lips quirked into a smile. “I thought you weren’t the outdoorsy type,” he said.

“I might convert.”

A small breath of laughter, and Ned looked sheepishly at the floor. Putting his hands in his pockets, he scuffed his boots against the carpet and opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped, perking up like a dog hearing a distant noise. His smile faltered, melting back into his usual expression of perturbed discomfort. 

“What was that?” he asked, looking around.

“Hmm?” Tom glanced up, listening vaguely and hearing nothing. “What was what?”

“I don’t know.” Ned turned in place, frowning. “I thought I heard something – footsteps, maybe.”

“Huh. The others are still downstairs, as far as I know.” Thomas shifted his weight, leaning on one arm now. “But I suppose it could be the concierge.”

“I suppose.” Ned worried at his lip. “Is there an attic?” he asked, after a moment.

Thomas shrugged. “Probably,” he said. “Why?”

Ned glanced back out into the hall. “It’s just, the noise – it sounded like it came from –” He looked up at the ceiling. “—Up there.”

Tom looked up, following his line of sight.

Above them, something rumbled, a uniform set of creaks like the click of heels on hard wood.

Tom froze. Ned glanced sidelong at him.

“You hear it?”

Tom didn’t answer. He listened – there it was again: one, two three. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw a small trickle of dust drift down from above. Abruptly, he pushed off the bed, tugging his blouse back into place as his heart did an uncomfortable series of flips in his chest.

“Let’s go down,” he said quickly. “Sir John will want to give a speech or something.”

In the foyer downstairs they were met with warmth and light and the tantalizing smell of food drifting in from the next room. The rest of the group had already assembled and begun the hazardous process of reclaiming their luggage, tramping around tracking snow all over the hardwood floor as they argued over who owned what. The concierge, a tall, scrawny lad with a mop of curly hair, was trying his best to help, but there was only so much he could do for all thirteen of the Terrebus staff.

Weaving between the men and bags, Tom found Crozier and handed him his room key. Crozier looked drawn and tired, and his brow was wrinkled in a way that Tom knew meant his morning coffee – and consequently his patience – had long since worn off. His expression relaxed fractionally when he saw Tom, however, and the look he gave him as he took the key communicated gratitude.

“Parking’s an absolute nightmare,” he said, both offering an explanation and venting his frustration. “Terror handles like a damn boat in deep snow.”

“Let’s hope the storm tapers off, then,” Tom said placatingly.

Crozier scoffed. He gave Tom a little pat on the arm, a conciliatory gesture, and moved past him, disappearing into the crowd. Tom thought about the bottles of whiskey in the suitcases on Crozier’s bed, and wondered if they would be enough to last the weekend.

Movement at his side drew his attention back to Ned, who had hung back during his conversation with Crozier but now drew near again, hovering close enough for Tom to smell his cheap cologne.

 _Cheap, but nice,_ he thought, inhaling the masculine scent.

Ned nodded after Crozier. “He alright?”

Tom nodded. “Just worried about the snow, is all.”

On the other side of the foyer, Sir John mounted the stairs, looking down over his staff. “Alright, attention everybody – attention! Quiet down, all!” He raised his hands, and the hum of conversation quieted. Sir John smiled down on his staff, smiling genially.

“Thank you,” he said, lowering his hands to clasp them before him. “Welcome, everyone, to the fifth semi-annual Terrebus company retreat!”

A polite ripple of applause, more enthusiastic in some quarters than others. Irving and Hodgson, despite having borderline panicked the entire drive up, looked excited, but the members of Fitzjames’ staff seemed less enthused. LeVesconte looked a little sickly, but he always looked like that.

“The purpose of this trip,” Sir John continued, “is to foster a sense of community among us; to forge strong bonds between us not just as coworkers, but as people. Now I know that a healthy sense of competition is desirable in the workplace, but in these next three days I want us to learn to work together as a team, not as individuals. My hope is that we will emerge from this weekend changed – for the better, of course – and closer than ever before.”

Tom suppressed a smile. Looking round at the staff present – preachy Irving, space-cadet Hodgson, Fitzjames’ crew of, as Crozier called them “jocks and ponces” – he wondered how Sir John could talk of bonding and workplace intimacy with a straight face.

Yet there he was, staring down glassy eyed at the staff and smiling like an artist admiring his own work. Crozier and Fitzjames stood stiffly behind him, ice cold and deliberately not looking at each other. As Sir John dismissed the group and everyone split off to go unpack and raid the buffet dinner, Tom wondered what would happen if you put those two in a room alone.

 _Sex or murder,_ he thought. _No in between._

Crozier shouldered past Fitzjames, ignoring an attempt on the part of the latter to start a conversation. Tom smiled.

_It’s going to be an interesting weekend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings (chapter 1): blood | alcohol mentions/consumption. This starts out out pretty tame, but as future chapters will have more content warnings I'll always include them. 
> 
> Welcome, everyone, to 70's Terror hell! This is chapter one of a long and wild ride, so buckle in and enjoy! There is no set updating schedule as yet, but new chapters should be arriving relatively frequently. If you have any questions/comments/concerns, don't hesitate to hmu! 
> 
> Special thanks to @winedark_maverick for enabling me, supporting me, and beta-ing -- check them out for some lovely fics! 
> 
> This fic also has an [accompanying playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6MIWnB6NVskBmnnNtwdRe2?si=8eDev_aPRuSHBh3pDL2NlQ)
> 
> Thanks for reading, all! :D


	2. The Parting of Our Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings, etc.

**_Love was so bright, then you went away_** **  
_My days were sunny, now they are grey_  
 _If god only planned it to last all our days_  
 _There never would have been a parting of our ways_**

****

_20 September 1979, 8:45 pm_

The door swung shut behind Francis, muffling the din of conversation from inside and plunging him into a merciful bubble of silence. Sighing deeply, he rolled his shoulders, relieving some of the tension pent up in his muscles, and walked out to the edge of the deck to lean on the railing and watch the snow.

_This will become a blizzard,_ Francis thought, worrying the inside of his cheek. He followed the fat, drifting flakes with his gaze, gauging the wind speed from the slant of the flurries and judging it to be moderate for now, but promising heavier snowfall later. By no means did Francis consider himself an expert in Canadian weather, but he’d been in mountain climates enough to know a thing or two about winter storms, and this one bothered him – had bothered him since he’d watched Sir John’s station wagon spin out on the slick ice back on the road. He thought of the conversations he’d had with Sir John when this trip had merely been in the planning stages, and wondered if he shouldn’t have pushed harder for an earlier date. September was a risky month in the Canadian north.

The sound of the door opening pulled Francis out of his thoughts, and he glanced over his shoulder as Blanky came out onto the deck in the wake of a brief spill of light and conversation, an unlit cigarette hanging limply from his lips.

“Sorry to interrupt your brooding,” he said, coming to stand beside Francis.

“S’alright,” said Francis. “Bum a smoke?”

Blanky fished in his pocket, producing a second cigarette and a yellow plastic lighter. Francis put the cigarette to his lips and cupped his hands around it as Blanky lit the end, then took a long pull. Smoke filled his lungs, warm and bitter, and he coughed. He’d never been much of a smoker – he had different vices.

Blanky lit his own cigarette and tucked the lighter away, leaning his forearms on the balcony railing. He nodded as he peered out into the darkness – of the two of them, he _could_ creditably be considered a mountain expert.

“Low clouds,” he mused, blowing out a puff of smoke. He jerked his head towards the horizon, where a smear of yellow-gray crouched low over the mountains, stark against the backdrop of the inky night sky. “Those are storm clouds,” he said. “Full blizzard, like as not.”

Francis nodded, watching the smoke curl up from the end of his cigarette. Blanky took another pull, flipping around to lean his back against the railing.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He looked down at Francis, his low brows knitting together above his eyes. “I know you weren’t too happy about this trip.”

“It’s not the trip,” Francis said, “it’s the timing.”

Blanky nodded. “Aye, probably not the best confluence of location and time,” he said. He fixed his gaze on Francis. “But that’s not all.”

Francis took a pull off his cigarette. The butt glowed like a hot ember for a moment, briefly illuminating the tips of his fingers before extinguishing itself as he removed it from his lips. He held the smoke for several beats, savoring the crackle and burn in his lungs, before letting it out in a thin stream through his lips.

“Is it Franklin?” Blanky pressed, still watching him closely. After a moment, he added carefully: “Is it Sophia?”

Francis dropped his gaze, watching the snow fall and collect in ghostly drifts against the side of the lodge far below the deck. Quite a drop, that. Even with the snow, one could break one’s legs falling from this high up.

He lifted his chin, bringing the cigarette back up to his lips.

“Everyone knows my opinions about this trip,” he said. “It’s no secret that it’s just a flimsy effort on Sir John’s part to repair the damage of last year.”

“Aye, but it’s more than his reputation he’s trying to salvage when it comes to you,” Blanky said. “He hopes you will have got over it by now.”

“Sir John _hopes_ for a great many things,” Francis huffed, shuffling his feet in the snow blanketing the deck. “Whether he’s actually capable of achieving them is another matter.”

“He’s done better this quarter,” Blanky said. “We’ve kept some commissions, made some dough. It hasn’t been nearly the fiscal disaster Barrow thought it’d be.”

Francis snorted. “No thanks to his golden boy, Fitzjames,” he scoffed.

“No,” Blanky said. “More thanks to you. Not that they’d ever stoop to give you recognition for it.”

Francis worked his jaw. Corporate wouldn’t ever give him recognition for his work – that was a fact he’d come to terms with long ago. The Sophia fiasco had nothing to do with that. What it _did_ have something to do with was his influence over Sir John. Maybe if he hadn’t screwed himself so royally two years ago, he would have been able to take on more of the trip planning – he could have saved them some trouble.

_Hopefully,_ he thought, tilting his head back to peer into the bruise-colored clouds, _not too much trouble._

“Have you tried seeing anyone else since it happened?” Blanky asked.

Francis started, turning to frown at his friend. “What?”

Blanky shrugged. “I thought after Sophia, it might’ve helped to shop around a little, stick your feelers out for something new.”

Francis scoffed, closing his eyes briefly. “You’re daft,” he said. “I’d be a fool to try something like that again.”

“She wasn’t the be-all, end-all, Francis,” said Blanky.

Francis sighed, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. _I know,_ he wanted to say. _She wasn’t –_ he _was. She was merely there to fill the void he left behind._ But that was something he’d never been able to find words for, something he wasn’t sure Blanky or anyone else would be able to understand. They hadn’t been there.

“I don’t think I’ll want anything like that for a good long while,” he said instead. “Some of us just aren’t suited for love.” He cocked a grin. “And we’re not all gods among ladies’ men, like you.”

Blanky ground out a hoarse laugh, coughing on his smoke. “Shove off,” he chuckled.

Francis laughed with him, and they lapsed into comfortable silence, but were soon interrupted by the door opening again. Francis turned to see who it was, squinting at the light from inside.

“Oh – terribly sorry,” said Fitzjames, hesitating in the doorway. “Didn’t think anyone was out here.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Fitzjames,” Blanky said, snuffing his cigarette in the snow and tossing it over the balcony. “I was just going in.” He pushed off the railing, clapping Francis on the shoulder. “Hold fast, Francis,” he said.

Francis listened to the retreating crunch of Blanky’s footsteps on the snow and the gentle click of the door as it closed behind him. Silence descended again, but Francis felt the presence of another person, heavy against his back. He turned around and saw Fitzjames hovering by the door, his face dark and backlit by the warm yellow light spilling out from the lodge windows.

“Something I can do for you, James?” Francis asked. James hesitated, and for a moment Francis thought he’d managed to scare him off, but then he detached himself from the light and walked out to the edge of the deck, shoving his hands into the pockets of his expensive-looking pea coat.

“You’re worried about the storm,” he said, nodding out at the snow.

“Only because it’s September,” Francis said, “and the weather here tends to follow a pattern.”

“Seems a little early to start crying doom,” James said, flashing a teasing smile that rankled Francis. “Couldn’t you take just one day to enjoy the trip first?”

Francis pushed off the railing, grinding the butt of his cigarette into the snow. “I’m not one for corporate retreats,” he said. “Not quite my speed.”

“Well, you hardly need to bring this one to a premature end.” James shifted, shaking snow out of his long, feathered hair. Francis wondered how long it took him to style it like that in the morning.

“Sir John seems perfectly confident that the snow will pass us by,” he continued. “You trust his judgment, don’t you?”

Francis flicked away his cigarette butt, wiping the ash from his fingertips. “Sir John was the one to arrange this whole thing,” he said stiffly. “It’s not my place to question his judgment.”

“Mm.” James raised a sleek brow. Francis fought down a spark of irritability; James Fitzjames had no right to judge him, not when he was the most junior person – both in age and seniority – to ever occupy such a high position in the company. He might technically be Sir John’s right hand, but if anything, he should defer to Francis in matters of decision making. Francis, after all, had been with the company for nearly a decade. At this time last year James hadn’t even heard of the Terrebus corporation.

“Well.” James broke the silence jarringly, knocking the heel of his boot against the wooden deck. “If Sir John thinks we’ll be fine, I’m sure we will be.” He flashed another smile. “Try to shake the brown study, eh? This is a vacation – you ought to act like it.” Turning on his heels, James hunched up his shoulders and went back inside, leaving Francis alone on the deck.

Francis watched him go with a curled lip. Leaning back on the railing, he tried to resume his peaceful solitude, but the quiet was soured now, the sprawling landscape before him more ominous than it had been before. Francis kicked a lump of snow off the deck, watching it make the long fall down before landing in a drift with a soft _thump._ He thought of the whiskey he’d brought with him, smuggled in at the bottom of his suitcase, and the cold deck suddenly lost all appeal. Turning his back on the darkness, Francis headed back inside.

**______________**

**_You might’ve heard I run with a dangerous crowd_ **

**_We ain’t too pretty, we ain’t too proud_ **

**_We might be laughing a bit too loud,_ **

**_Oh, but that never hurt no one_ **

**_…_ **

**_Darlin’, only the good die young_ **

****

_11:00 pm_

Ed Little looked up from his interlocked hands as another bout of coughing erupted beside him, and he watched Gore and Hodgson laugh as Irving struggled to handle his second hit off the bong.

“Go easy now, John,” LeVesconte said, grinning over his glass of brandy. “I won’t be the one to explain to Sir John why you end up vomiting on the floor.”

“You’re one to talk,” Fairholme said from his place sprawled out on the couch. LeVesconte made a rude gesture at him and downed his drink.

Edward shook his head, smiling softly. LeVesconte, Gore, and Hodgson all knew each other, and it was easy to become an accessory to their easy camaraderie. Even if Edward felt slightly out of place himself, and even if they were a bit rowdy when they got each other hyped up. It wasn’t like they were hurting anyone – everyone else had gone to bed hours ago, with the exception, perhaps, of Crozier, and he didn’t care what his staff did behind closed doors. Edward settled back against the couch and tried to relax.

“Hand that over,” Gore said, taking the bong from Irving’s hands as he gave his last hiccupping coughs. “After that god-awful drive, I need to mellow out.”

Hodgson scoffed. “You all fared worse than we did,” he said. “Crozier might be drunk seventy-five percent of the time, but at least he’s a decent driver. Sir John was taking those turns like he wanted to do donuts in the snow.”

“Hence Dundy’s puke session,” Fairholme sneered.

Gore blew out a wide plume of smoke, shaking his head. “Those roads were horrendous,” he said. “It’s a wonder we made it up here alive.”

“Crozier says we’re likely to get a blizzard,” Hodgson said. “I hope we don’t get snowed in.”

“Is that a monkey?”

Ed looked up as Irving stood on wobbly legs and picked over the remnants of their buffet dinner to the row of taxidermied animals on display along the sideboard. Irving’s eyes were glassy and vacant, his smile loose, and Ed guessed that he’d be conscious for less than an hour before the indica knocked his lights out.

“Don’t break it, John,” he called as Irving stroked the monkey’s furry head. Irving ignored him, cooing at the creature as if it were alive.

“I shall call you –” He paused, then broke into a broad grin. “— _Jacko_.”

“He couldn’t hear you if you put a megaphone to his ear,” Gore said, waving him off. “You sure you don’t want a hit, Little?”

Edward shook his head. He knew how smoking affected him, and he had no desire to repeat the embarrassments of his university days. Gore shrugged and mercifully did not press him.

“You know,” Hodgson said, “I hear that Crozier’s secretary knows how to bake this stuff into cookies.”

Edward looked up at that. _Thomas?_ Never in his life would he have pegged Jopson as a hallucinogens afficionado. He thought of the small, elegant man, in his velvet flares and frilled blouses, and tried to picture him keeping company with the kind of people who smoked weed on the regular, but completely failed to conjure the image.

Though, given his behavior that afternoon, it was possible that there were a great many things Edward didn’t know about Thomas Jopson.

The evening’s conversation came back to Edward in a rush, and he had to fight down the blush that threatened to redden his cheeks when he thought of it. After Sir John’s speech Jopson had practically dragged him into the lounge pit, and had been glued to his side until he went up to bed about an hour ago. Edward was sure they’d conversed, but he primarily remembered the musical ring of Jopson’s laughter; his lingering touches and wandering eyes. Edward was astonished at the boldness of the behavior – he and Jopson had worked in the same building for over a year now, and he’d never even suspected he’d be on the man’s radar. He couldn’t determine if Jopson’s interest was new, or if he was just thick.

“If we do get snowed in,” Gore was saying, leaning back against the couch cushions, “we won’t have to go back to work on Monday, so maybe we should keep our fingers crossed for it.”

Hodgson laughed, and LeVesconte opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak the lights gave a violent flicker above them. Everyone paused and looked up. The electric bulbs in the antler chandelier surged and dimmed, fizzing ominously. The wall sconces flickered erratically, making the long hallways branching off the lounge room blink like eyes. In the absence of everyone’s voices, the howling wind and the rattle of ice flakes on the large windowpanes was clearly audible.

“That’s fun,” Fairholme said.

The electricity gave a final, buzzing surge, and then something popped, and the whole room was suddenly plunged into darkness.

“Shit.”

There was a shuffling as someone got up and went in search of a flashlight, and then a white beam split the darkness, illuminating Gore’s face.

“Power’s out,” he said. “Must be the storm.”

“Fuck,” LeVesconte said. “Anybody know where the fuse box is?”

“Outside,” Hodgson piped up from where he’d gone to fetch Irving, who was cowering with Jacko the stuffed monkey beneath a hanging swag lamp. “It’s round the back – I saw it on the way in.”

“Right,” Gore said, immediately drawing himself up as if large-scale electric maintenance was something he did all the time. “I’ll fix it.” 

Edward pushed himself to his feet, brushing crumbs from his dinner off his jeans. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “You might need backup.”

Gore nodded, and the two of them went out through the foyer to the mudroom, where their coats lay deposited in a heap.

“That’s just like this piece of shit lodge,” Gore said, shrugging on his jacket. “First day and the power goes out. That’s what happens when you only have four staff members.”

“Three, if you don’t count old Bridgens himself,” Ed grumbled. “He just owns the place.” Fishing out his parka, he pulled it on and zipped it up to his chin, and then immediately felt a sting of emasculation as he saw Gore’s coat, a leather outdoorsman’s jacket in a stylish, fitted cut. He felt like a marshmallow in comparison.

Cinching the wide belt around the waist of his coat, Gore passed the flashlight to his other hand and looked at Ned.

“Ready?” he asked. Ned grimaced, and Gore grinned in response. “ _Allons-y,_ as the French say.”

Outside, the wind had increased to gale speed, buffeting Edward’s face and flinging little chips of ice into his eyes. Following the beam of Gore’s flashlight, he hopped down the stairs and trudged through the snow piling up in drifts along the side of the building. Already it was up to his ankles – by morning it would surely be several feet deep.

They hugged the building as they walked round to the back of the lodge, sticking close together to avoid wandering off. It would be easy, Edward thought, to get lost on your own out here; the woods came all the way up to the lodge, nearly brushing the upper windows in places, which meant that the lights from the building would barely penetrate the trees on a good day. If you happened to wander off, even just a few yards into the trees, it would be possible to get completely turned around. Tucking his chin into his parka, Edward stepped in a little closer to Gore.

“Hell of a way to start the trip, eh?” Gore shouted, grinning over at Edward.

Edward shivered, hunching his shoulders against the wind. “I preferred the indoor part,” he shouted back. Gore just laughed, holding his flashlight up to illuminate a wider path.

They circled the building and came out near the rear kitchen entrance, a door marked with an _employees only_ sign and locked with a padlock. Next to the door was the fuse box, already dripping with glassy icicles.

“Here we are.” Gore put the flashlight between his teeth, wriggling his fingers to warm them before digging them into the seam between the box and its cover. With a heave and a grimace, he popped the cover open, revealing the frosty switchboard. Wanting to be useful, Edward held out a hand.

“Let me hold that,” he said. Gore nodded, taking the flashlight out of his mouth, and handed it over.

“Just point it straight in, will you?” he said. “The breakers are labelled, but it’s hard to read.”

Edward nodded and moved in closer, aiming the flashlight at the main panel. Gore leaned in, squinting at the tiny, slanted handwriting denoting the breakers.

“Right. Main dining room, foyer, upstairs hallway, attic – huh, that’s funny, that one’s off.”

“Attic?” Edward started, remembering the footsteps he and Tom had heard in his bedroom. Gore nodded, flipping the breaker switch.

“Not the one we’re looking for, but I’m sure Bridgens’ll appreciate us turning it back on for him.”

Edward shivered. He was sure it was merely by accident that the attic switch was off, but it was a creepy coincidence, nevertheless. Craning his neck, he glanced back at the towering woods. Here, at the back of the lodge, the trees loomed close above the building, their swaying branches almost directly overhead. Beyond the tiny circle of the flashlight’s illumination all was inky darkness, the shapes of individual trees mere purple smudges against the black. Edward’s eyes strained to pick out familiar shapes, his mind desperate for familiarity, for order. Something about not knowing what was out there was unnerving.

“Ed? Move the light back, please?”

Edward jerked back around, seeing that he’d let the light fall to the ground. “Sorry,” he said, lifting it. Gore rubbed his hands together and tried throwing a series of switches, but nothing happened. He swore softly and switched them back, redoubling his efforts to read the labels.

The wind howled in Edward’s ears, and for a moment he thought he heard some kind of animal noise in it, a howl or a cry. A shiver went through him that had nothing to do with the cold, and he swallowed. Slowly, he turned his head around, scanning the woods instinctively.

Somewhere off to his left, a stick cracked.

Edward’s gaze darted around, and as he looked, he just barely caught a sliver of movement – a pale, hulking shape detaching itself from the trees just beyond the path circling the lodge. A hot spike of adrenaline shot through him, and he stumbled backwards, bumping into Gore.

“Hey, Ed, watch it.”

“Graham –” Edward reached for his friend’s sleeve with a shaking hand. He stared into the darkness, his eyes aching from the effort, and as he looked he saw the shape again, moving behind the first row of trees.

“Ed, I need the damn _light,”_ snapped Gore. Edward lifted his arm, but refused to turn around to see if he was aiming it correctly. He felt frozen in place, his muscles tensed like a prey animal caught in the gaze of its predator.

“Graham.” His voice was small now, so weak it was almost swallowed by the wind. “Graham, there’s something out there.”

“What?” Gore turned around, squinting into the dark. “Ed, there’s nothing out there. It’s probably just your imagination. You sure you didn’t hit the bong?”

Edward shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady. “Not once.”

Gore flipped another series of switches, and this time it was accompanied by a rousing electric hum as the generator kicked back on. Light flooded the lodge, spilling out onto the snow, and Edward saw the white shape sink behind the trees. He felt Gore appear at his side, but still his gaze remained locked on the dark void that had opened in the thing’s wake.

“Hey, we did it.” Gore clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go back inside.”

Edward jumped, shaking himself. He flexed his cold fingers around the flashlight, sniffing, and nodded stiffly.

“Right,” he said. “Inside.” He forced his legs back into motion, pulling his boots out of the snow, but as they walked he couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder at the trees. Even with the thing gone, he still felt a prickling at the back of his neck, like eyes fixed on his back. Like the thing knew he’d been watching it.

Like it was watching him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings (chapter 2): smoking | very lowkey contemplations of self-harm | recreational drug use | alcohol consumption 
> 
> Welcome to chapter 2! There's a lot of setup happening here, and some *crack shit* as well, but hang in there -- the spooks are approaching! Thanks for reading, feel free to drop a comment with any questions etc.! :) 
> 
> Thanks to [my loyal beta](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/winedark-maverick)
> 
> Accompanying playlist [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6MIWnB6NVskBmnnNtwdRe2?si=YTwc16uXQwyi7Vh9G8yzBA)


	3. Rock the Boat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings, etc.

**_Said I'd like to know where, you got the notion_ **

**_(To rock the boat), don't rock the boat baby, don't tip the boat over_ **

**_(Rock the boat), don't rock the boat baby_ **

**_(Rock the boat)_ **

****

_21 September 1979, 9:30 am_

The hum of conversation in the sitting room was loud, but James could still hear the big clock on the wall chime out the half-hour. Swallowing a yawn, he glanced over at Sir John. The frown on his face was stony, but his hands were restless, tapping out a rhythm that James knew denoted worry. James leaned over, clearing his throat softly.

“I’m sure he’s on his way down, sir,” he said. 

Sir John blinked, turning his head towards James. He shifted his stance, clasping his hands before him, and set his heavy jaw.

“It isn’t like him to be this late,” he clipped.

James bit his tongue to avoid commenting that it was _exactly_ like Francis to be this late, and tried to find something else to hold Sir John’s attention. Sweeping the room with his gaze, he noted the absence of two of Francis’ junior executives, as well as his secretary and one of the interns. It was not without a twinge of satisfaction that James acknowledged that all three of _his_ execs had made it down in time. Hodgson was the only Terror executive present, hovering by the stereo listening to smooth jazz and nibbling on the corner of a croissant.

“It isn’t just Francis,” James pointed out, drawing Sir John’s attention to the missing staff. “There are still a few other stragglers.”

“Still,” said Sir John, looking anxiously at the clock. “Perhaps you should go and fetch him.”

James grimaced. Rousting Francis – either hungover or possibly still drunk – out of bed for something as trite as a team building seminar was the kind of task he explicitly tried to avoid. He’d made the mistake of _talking_ to Francis once at a morning board meeting the day after a particularly hard night, and nearly had his head bitten off.

“I’m sure if we just give him a few more minutes –”

“Ah – the man himself!”

Sir John interrupted James before he could finish his plea, his face melting into its usual self-satisfied congeniality, and James looked up as Francis appeared on the second-floor balcony, looking – as usual – a little worse for wear. His sandy hair was mussed, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his leather blazer was wrinkled – from being improperly packed, like as not. Francis Crozier didn’t seem like the kind of man who understood the intricacies of folding different fabrics properly.

“Welcome, Francis,” Sir John quipped as Crozier approached them, still blinking sleep from his eyes. “How does it feel to rejoin the land of the living?”

“Harsh and unforgiving, as always,” Francis replied drily. “Sorry I’m late, I ah – overslept.”

“Worry not, that’s what we expected,” said Sir John. James ran his tongue across his teeth and looked askance, not wanting to share his own opinions on the matter.

“Have you any idea where your other two execs got off to, Francis?” he asked, unable to help his judgmental tone.

Crozier curled his lip. “Don’t call me Francis,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sir John interjected. “We’ll start without them. Men!”

James worked his jaw. _You’ll start without half our staff, but refuse to make a move without Francis, of all people. Naturally. Perhaps I should just get dumped by your niece, and then I too could enjoy preferential treatment._

James knew it was a mean and childish thought, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. Had _he_ arrived so late to one of Sir John’s precious seminars, he would’ve been flayed alive. Any higher-up would’ve – except Francis. And James suspected that most of the staff knew the reason for that.

“Something the matter, James?”

James blinked as Francis’ rough voice addressed him. His blue gaze, when James caught it, was inquisitive, for once with little to no judgment in it. At this proximity, James could smell the cheap cologne Francis had used to try and mask the smell of whiskey clinging to him like sweat. James wrinkled his nose, swallowing.

“’Course not,” he said. “I’m perfect. Tip top.”

Francis raised a brow. “That’s good to hear.”

“Alright everybody, huddle in!” Sir John shouted, waving to the staff. The chatter died down by increments, and coffee cups and leftover pastries from breakfast were deposited on side tables and left abandoned on couches as the meagre group gathered round. James and Francis hovered behind Sir John, Francis assuming a stance of military rigidity while James took a hip, casually tucking a hand into his trouser pocket.

_Christ, lighten up, will you?_ He thought. Francis treated everything like a crisis – first the snow, now this seminar. Ironic, given how lax his self-control was.

“We’ll be doing trust falls to kick off this morning, gentlemen,” Sir John said, drawing James out of his thoughts. “I want us to feel comfortable with one another, to trust each other as we would close friends.”

James glanced over at Francis. He hoped Sir John didn’t want it too badly.

“Everyone pair up now,” said Sir John. “Do a few falls each, and then we’ll swap partners. Hop to it!” Turning around, he smiled and said: “James, Francis, I’ve taken the liberty of pairing you together. As my senior executives, it is especially imperative that you trust one another. Together, you must be a beacon of leadership for every Terrebus employee.”

Francis gave James a once over. “You going to be able to work in all that bling, James?” 

James glanced down at himself. He’d selected a relatively toned-down outfit for today, just a button down and some flares. He hadn’t the slightest idea what Francis was referring to – his watch? The gold chain around his neck? It was hardly criminal to accessorize. James tossed his hair back.

“I do it every day,” he retorted. “Careful not to stumble and fall; it’s hard to do exercises like this with your coordination impaired.”

Sir John watched the banter with mild disapproval. “Play nice, boys,” he muttered. “Remember: a beacon of leadership.” Patting James gently on the shoulder, he brushed past him and went to supervise the other groups.

James scuffed his shoe against the carpet. Francis was glaring at him sourly, but James would be damned if he let hit shit mood ruin the day.

“Well?” he said. “Shall we get started?” Pushing up his sleeves, he held his arms out.

Francis raised his brows. “I will not be falling for you, James,” he said.

James winked. “You sure?”

Francis’ face reddened, but before he could lash out James plowed ahead.

“I can fall, if you insist," he said, "but you have to remember to actually _catch_ me.”

“I know how the damned exercise works,” Francis snapped. Shrugging his blazer into place, he twirled a finger. “Turn round.”

James spun around, putting a bit of unnecessary flair into the movement, just to piss Francis off. _At least,_ he thought, _my ass looks nice in these pants._

“Alright,” Francis said from behind him. “Go for it.”

James rocked back on his heels. His reflexes – and his instincts – resisted the fall, but he forced himself to let the impetus carry him back. He felt himself falling, and squeezed his eyes shut to ease the dizziness, praying that Francis wasn’t enough of a prick to let him topple over.

Firm hands met his back, stopping his fall. Francis stumbled under his weight, but he held on, and the panic receded from James’ mind. He leaned into the touch, putting more of his weight on Francis, and felt Francis’ hands slide down his back to compensate for the added burden. He thought that if they had to do several of these, he might actually make an entertaining morning of popping Francis’ personal bubble like this.

Then came the screaming.

James wasn’t sure what was more alarming – the shock of the sudden yelling, or the spike of panic as he felt himself losing balance, and taking Francis down with him. The two of them collapsed, their combined weights making recovery impossible, and James heard Francis grunt as the air was knocked from his lungs. 

James, at least, had a softer fall. He landed partially upright sitting in Francis’ lap, and was able to look up at the second floor with the others, listening to the sounds of muffled shouting and a few loud thumps. Beneath him, Francis coughed and wriggled, shoving against his back.

“Get off me!” he snarled.

James looked down at him. Irritated, he slapped his hands away. “I am trying,” he snapped. None too gently, he heaved himself off of Francis and got to his feet, brushing off the front of his trousers. “There’s no call for melodrama, Francis,” he said, offering him a hand. “ _You_ dropped _me_.”

“I did no such thing,” Francis retorted, ignoring James’ outstretched hand and getting up by himself. “I was distracted, as you might imagine. And don't -” He jabbed a finger at James. "-Call me Francis."

Shaking himself out, he squinted, as if by concentrating hard enough he might divine the source of the commotion. Upstairs, a door slammed, followed by another battery of yelling. James glanced over at Sir John, who looked supremely puzzled, but made no move to go and see what was going on. Francis looked between them, then rolled his eyes.

“For Christ’s sake,” he grumbled. Straightening out his blazer, he made for the stairs. James exchanged another glance with Sir John, and then reluctantly followed him.

**______________**

**_Then the door was open, and the wind appeared_ **

**_The candles blew and then disappeared_ **

**_The curtains flew and then he appeared, saying ‘don't be afraid’_ **

****

_half an hour earlier_

The stairs creaked under Tom’s weight as he climbed up to the second floor, chewing on the cheese danish he’d stolen from the buffet downstairs. He tried to remember the directions Peglar had given him – _go up the stairs and take the first left, then cross the balcony and hook around the library_ – but the lodge had a way of scrambling your brain, and Tom was finding it difficult not to get turned around.

_Hook_ around _the library?_ He frowned, peering into a room lined with dark wooden bookshelves which he assumed was the library in question. He bit a hunk off his danish, chewing thoughtfully. This room had only one entrance, and the corridor ended just a few feet to Tom’s left, with no corners or doors.

“The hell is this place?” he grumbled. Turning on his heels, he backtracked, crossing back over the balcony, below which he could see Sir John and Fitzjames talking. He hoped they weren’t waiting on Crozier – judging by his mood when Tom had popped in to check on him a few minutes ago, it would be a while before he made it downstairs.

Returning to the landing, Tom walked down the main corridor, checking each of the bedroom doors to make sure none of them were actually a linen closet in disguise. It was only when he’d reached the end of the hall that he noticed the attic ladder.

He paused, his hand on one of the doorknobs, and stared. He hadn’t known the entrance was so close to the bedrooms, or that it was accessible to guests. Recalling the incident yesterday with Ned, he suppressed a shiver.

Then above him, something suddenly crashed to the floor and rolled. Feet hurried across the attic floor, and muffled voices came down, talking in confrontational tones. Tom froze and stared up at the ceiling, his heart pounding against his ribs. His mind went through a rapid-fire sequence of thoughts, taking him from animal fear to burning curiosity. Dropping his hand from the doorknob, he wiped the cold sweat from his palms and approached the ladder.

It was a surprisingly rickety thing, an unusual accessory to a lodge that was only slightly older than Tom. It led up into a geometrical void, a square of pure blackness that smelled of cold and damp and mothballs. Tom climbed onto the first rung, testing his weight on it. It creaked ominously, but it held. Sniffing, Tom climbed slowly up into the black.

At first he couldn’t see anything, but as his eyes adjusted he could make out the shapes of piled boxes and cloth-draped furniture. Beyond them, a dim, bare lightbulb cast a small circle of light in the center of which stood a group of people, among them Mr. Irving, one of Crozier’s junior executives, and Cornelius Hickey, an intern. The other two had their backs to Tom, but he recognized the smaller of them by his mop of curly hair – Billy, the hotel’s useless concierge.

“Just put it back!” Irving snapped, glaring down his nose at Hickey. “You’ve already caused enough damage.”

“Aren’t you even a _little_ bit curious?” Hickey teased, grinning sidelong at him. In his hands he held a broad rectangular object, and his thin fingers tapped out a rapid rhythm on it as he stood and raised his brows at the executives. “Just a teensy-weensy itty-bitty bit?”

“It doesn’t belong to us, so we probably shouldn’t mess with it. Tell him, Mr. Gibson.”

Tom’s brows went up. He recognized that voice, the voice of the man with his back to Tom. _Of course,_ he thought. He should’ve guessed from the shape of the man’s shoulders, but he never would have expected Ned to be involved in anything shady, or anything involving Mr. Hickey.

_Same thing,_ he thought acridly.

“Mr. Gibson,” Hickey said, “has already agreed to help me with my little experiment, but he won’t be enough all by himself. We need more people – at least _two_ more people. That’s where you gents come in.”

“Mr. Hickey –” Irving began, shaking his head.

“It’s just a bit of fun, Mr. Irving,” Hickey said. “Even Billy doesn’t know where it came from, though – that is a bit strange, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Mr. Gibson shouldn’t have to answer for your snooping,” Ned grumbled.

Tom frowned. He should leave – whatever was going on here was not his business. He stepped down a rung on the ladder, then winced as it creaked loudly. Ned’s head snapped up and he spun around, his dark gaze zeroing in on the hatchway.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

_Shit._ Tom peered up above the hatchway, waving guiltily. “Only me,” he said. “Sorry – I heard talking.”

“Oh.” Ned relaxed. “Tom. You’re fine, we were just concluding up here.”

“Actually –” Hickey’s gaze snapped over to Tom, pinning him in place with glittering force. “Tom, would you mind coming up here? Just for a moment – I want your opinion on something.”

Tom hesitated. Hickey waved him forward.

“Come on then,” he said. “I need your help settling a matter of importance.”

Tom sighed. Rolling his eyes, he pulled himself the rest of the way up the ladder and picked through the boxes over to the circle of light where the others stood. He gravitated towards Ned, hovering by his side as Hickey fiddled with the rectangular object he was holding. Wiping his palms on his trousers, Tom raised his brows. 

“Well?” he prompted. “What’s this ‘matter of importance?’”

Hickey smiled – an expression Tom hated on him, had hated since he’d first laid eyes on him. It was an oil-slick smile, a subtle, lopsided twitch of the mustache that pulled his thin face taut, accompanied by a cold glint in his hawk’s eyes. He shifted, rocking his weight onto one hip, and tapped his snakeskin boot on the floor. His tongue flicked out, running over his bottom lip as if he was savoring the moment.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Tom?”

Tom drew back, frowning. Ned stiffened at his side.

“That’s Mr. Jopson, to you,” he said. Hickey’s gaze slid over to him for a moment before returning to Tom.

“Of course,” he said. “ _Mr. Jopson,_ do you believe in ghosts?”

Tom folded his arms over his chest. “No, not really. Why?”

Hickey’s smile broadened. His narrow shoulders had been curled in beneath his leather jacket, protectively circling the object clutched to his chest, but now he opened his arms, spinning the object around so that Tom could see it. Ned glanced over at Tom, his expression attempting to convey an apology.

Tom stared. He recognized the thing, of course, but he couldn’t fathom what kind of response Hickey thought it would produce to warrant such theatrics. Tom raised an eyebrow.

“A Ouija board?”

“A _spirit board,”_ Hickey corrected. “This is a tool used to contact spirits in the great beyond.”

“It’s a toy,” said Irving flatly.

“It is _not_ a toy,” Hickey said, eyeing him. “This is a legitimate ghost-hunting device, used by professionals.”

“And you are suggesting – what?” Tom asked. “A séance?”

Hickey’s eyes gleamed. Beside him, Mr. Gibson shuffled his feet. “Maybe it would be better if we just put it back, Cornelius,” he said quietly.

“Aye, listen to him.” Irving jerked his head at Gibson. “It’s all a bunch of nonsense.”

“Then there’s no harm in having a little fun with it, is there?” Hickey snapped back. He swept the assembled group with his gaze, leaning his head in conspiratorially. “Ever since we got here, I’ve gotten a strange feeling from this place. Shivers up my spine, cold spots in the halls.” He pitched his voice low. “A prickling on the back of my neck, like I’m being watched.”

Irving scoffed, but Tom noticed Ned tense at his side. He looked over, searching his face, and thought he saw a flash of unease pass over Ned’s features.

Hickey saw it too. Tom watched him latch onto it, the jaws of the trap springing shut.

“You’ve felt it too, eh Mr. Little? The _presence?”_

“Good God, this is ridiculous,” Irving said. “Edward, tell him how ridiculous this is.”

Ned shifted awkwardly, pushing up the sleeves of his flannel. He looked between Hickey and Irving, sniffed, and cleared his throat.

Irving’s jaw twitched. “Edward?”

“Go on then, Mr. Little,” Hickey pressed. “Tell us what you’ve seen.”

“I haven’t _seen_ anything,” Ned said. “Only – I have felt something.” He nodded at Hickey. “A feeling like being watched, like what you were saying. And I’ve heard things – me and Tom, we both did.”

Irving threw his head back. “For the love of all that is holy,” he swore.

“He’s telling the truth,” Toms said quietly.

“I didn’t say it was a ghost,” Ned added quickly. “But it is a little strange. I’ve felt it twice now, in two different places in the lodge, and I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

Tom was watching Ned’s face as he spoke, and he thought he saw his face redden at that last bit, but his recovery was swift. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shrugging.

“Just an observation,” he said.

“A very astute observation,” Hickey said. He held the board up, tapping the front. “Well? Shall we attempt to contact what’s watching us?”

Ned and Billy were silent. Irving was tense and red in the face, but he too said nothing. Tom was irritated with Hickey for roping them into this little drama, but he had to admit he also felt a twinge of curiosity. And he remembered what he’d heard the first day, the look on Ned’s face.

He threw up his hands. “Fine,” he said. “If you insist, Mr. Hickey. Let’s just…get it over with.”

Hickey beamed. “Excellent.” Folding his legs beneath him, he plopped to the floor and lay the board before him, producing from his pocket a planchette. Billy sat beside him, and Tom gave Ned a little shrug before joining them. Ned sighed and sat beside Tom, while Irving sputtered his disbelief.

“You’re really doing this?” he said. “Well, _I_ won’t be joining you – unholy, that is; practically Satanic.”

“If you hate it so much, John, then why don’t you just leave?” Ned snapped. Irving colored, lifting his chin defiantly, and fished for a response.

“Well –” He sniffed. “Somebody – someone needs to make sure nothing _untoward_ happens. That someone might as well be me.”

Ned rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself.” Rolling his broad shoulders, he sat forward and placed his fingers on the planchette as Hickey showed him. Tom joined them, overlapping his fingers slightly with Ned’s. Ned flinched, but didn’t pull away – shifted closer, in fact, letting his knee rest against Tom’s.

“Everybody ready?” Hickey asked. Billy and Tom nodded, and Ned inclined his head. Behind them, Irving craned his neck to peer down at the board.

Hickey cleared his throat. Casting his gaze about the room, he said:

“Is anyone here with us?”

Silence.

He tried again. “We have here a tool to help us communicate with you – if you can hear us, move the planchette. Spell something out, if you can.”

Again, nothing. Irving scoffed.

“See?” he said. “Nonsense.”

“We’ve sensed you,” Hickey said, cutting him off at the end. “Felt your presence. Tell us your name, or why you’re here. We want to help.”

Tom glanced over at Ned. His face was oddly stoic, his jaw clenched tight and his face pale. He looked as if this was actually frightening to him, as if he really were invested in the response the board gave. Tom shifted closer, bringing their legs flush up against one another, and stroked the back of his hand with his pinky. It was a tiny gesture, easily written off as just him shifting his position, but he felt Ned respond to it, felt the message go through. Tom wasn’t sure why he did it; it just felt appropriate.

“If you’re here, give us a sign,” Hickey said again, raising his voice. “We know you’re there; now show us.”

Beneath his fingers, Tom felt the planchette shudder. He froze, his heart seizing in his chest, and stared as it slowly began to move, dragging across the board towards the letter H – then the E, then R, then back to E.

“Here.” Hickey looked up, his face triumphant. “Are you here with us, in this room?”

The planchette moved again, up to the top left corner of the board.

“Yes,” breathed Ned. He looked up, his gaze sweeping the shadows. Irving shifted uncomfortably behind them.

“Who are you?” Hickey asked.

They all watched as the planchette scraped across the board, picking up speed now as it spelled out _MINE._

“Mine,” read Hickey, his brows furrowing. “Your what?”

_H-E-R-E._

Tom frowned at the board. “Here? As in, the lodge? The lodge is yours?”

“That can’t be,” Ned said. “This property belongs to Terrebus – the company built the lodge decades ago.”

The planchette jerked, flying across the board to land on _NO._ Hickey looked up, grinning.

“It seems to disagree with you on that, Mr. Little.”

Tom glared at Hickey. “I swear to God, Hickey, if you’re moving the damn thing –”

“I’m not!” Hickey met his gaze. “I swear it, I’m not moving anything. Do I look like a liar to you?”

Tom glared. _Yes._

“Ask it – ask what it wants,” Ned said, licking his lips. He was pale now, his fingers cold against Tom’s. Hickey obliged, voicing the question, and the planchette immediately moved in response.

_G-E-T O-U-T._

A shaky breath rattled loose of Ned’s chest. Hickey opened his mouth to ask another question, but the board cut him off, rapidly spelling out _MINE_ again.

“Was there ever another owner of this property?” Tom asked. He turned to Billy. “Mr. Gibson?”

Billy raised his watery gaze and meekly shook his head. “Not that I know of,” he said. “No one except the natives –”

_MINE,_ the board spelled, the movements of the planchette becoming erratic and jerky now. _MINE MINE MINE GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT._

“I think it might be time to say goodbye,” Ned said. Just as he spoke, the light above them flickered, and Tom felt his heart flutter in his chest.

Hickey leaned over the board, ignoring Ned entirely. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why do you want us to get out? Are we in danger?”

The planchette flung itself onto the yes at this last question, and then ripped free of their fingers as suddenly the lightbulb shattered, plunging them into darkness. Someone – Irving, it sounded like – let out a yelp, and there was a short burst of chaos as everyone scrambled away from the board. Tom snatched his fingers back, breathing a quiet _“Jesus!”_ and crawled backwards until his back hit a box. He felt someone beside him and, recognizing the scent of Ned’s cologne, fumbled for him. Their hands found each other in the dark, and Tom squeezed Ned’s hard.

There was a momentary silence, in which Irving could be heard muttering as he shuffled about in the dark and Tom could feel his pulse thumping in his neck. Beside him, Ned was shaking, his breaths wavering and labored. Tom swallowed around the hard lump of terror in his throat and choked:

“Irving, Hickey? Mr. Gibson?”

A small click, and the beam of a torch cut through the darkness, illuminating Gibson’s pale face. Tom felt a rush of relief.

“Come on,” Gibson said. “It’s time to go.”

“Never agreed more,” Irving said weakly from where he’d been cowering beside a covered chair. Gingerly getting to his feet, he scurried over to Gibson and waved rapidly at Tom and Ned. “Hurry up, you lot!”

Tom squeezed Ned’s fingers and got to his feet, drawing the other man up with him. Reluctantly releasing his hand, Tom followed Gibson over to the hatchway, which had at some point fallen shut. Gibson reached down and gave it a pull, but nothing happened. He paused, tried again, and then turned around. The light of the torch cast his face into deep contrast, making his sunken eyes look like open sockets in a skull.

“It’s locked.”

Irving paled. “What do you mean, locked? Move over.” Pushing Gibson aside, Irving grabbed the hatchway handle and yanked hard, but the door wouldn’t budge. Ned watched him with a blank expression, his wide eyes alone betraying his fear.

“It said we were in danger,” he murmured.

“Don’t say _that,”_ Irving said, still trying to pull the hatch open. “Come on, help me with this.”

Swallowing, Ned nodded and went to Irving’s side. Bracing their feet on either side of the hatch, they both pulled, but all the door did was rattle. Tom turned in place, scanning the darkness as a sudden realization dawned on him.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Where’s Mr. Hickey?”

From somewhere further back in the attic, a sharp knock rang out. Irving jumped, and Gibson swiveled, swinging his flashlight beam into the amorphous darkness. The knocking sounded again, but closer this time. Irving, clearly close to panic, rattled the hatchway door.

“Let me out of here!” he shouted. He rapped his fists on the hatchway, putting his mouth close to it. “Hey! Somebody let us out – please, anybody! Help us!”

The knocking was loud and insistent now, an erratic thunder sounding on walls and boxes alike, closing in. Ned pressed against Tom, his trembling hand gripping Tom’s so tightly it hurt.

“Let us out!” Irving rattled the hatchway again, and this time it flung open, sending him careening backwards into Gibson.

“Jesus Christ,” Tom breathed.

“Everybody out!” Ned shouted, pushing Gibson and Irving towards the hatch. “Out _now!”_

The four of them leapt from the hatchway, nobody bothering to take the ladder. They landed with a crash on the floor below, light and warmth spilling into Tom’s vision so abruptly it was jarring. Ned dropped down last, and just as he cleared the hatch, it slammed closed, the bolt ramming home with a punctuating _thud_ above them.

“Christ – fuck – Jesus fucking Christ!” Irving scrambled backwards along the floor, shaking and swearing, his entire veneer of self-control shattered instantaneously. “What in God’s name was _that_?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Tom said robotically, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Ned.

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck.”_

“John, will you shut the fuck up?” Ned snapped. Irving froze, looking up at him, and clamped his jaw shut.

For a moment, Tom stood frozen, his mind unable to process any of what had just happened. He was vaguely cognizant of Ned’s body pressed against him; of the beating of his own heart and the faces of Irving and Gibson, but none of it was registering on a more complex level. At first he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps – not until Ned turned around and he heard a familiar voice exclaim his name in a tone that was just slightly less threatening than the experience they’d just had.

_“Thomas?”_

Tom turned, his head moving mechanically, and his gaze fell on the small crowd bottlenecking at the end of the corridor opposite them. A gaggle of spectators, and at its head – Crozier, his face twisted into a canvas of mingled rage and confusion. Tom met his gaze, and immediately his training went into effect. Reaching up with a trembling hand, he brushed an errant lock of hair aside and plastered a smile onto his face. When he spoke, his voice was steadier than he would have expected.

“Hello, Mr. Crozier sir,” he said. “So sorry about this. Did we interrupt you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings (chapter 3): alcohol mentions/consumption (per usual) | some pretty intense swearing | the mortifying ideal of corporate icebreakers
> 
> Everyone give a very warm welcome to everyone's favorite rat bastard and the world's worst corporate intern, Mr. Icky! What WILL he get up to next? Stay tuned to find out! ;)
> 
> [thanks, beta!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/winedark-maverick)
> 
> [Super Sexy Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6MIWnB6NVskBmnnNtwdRe2?si=AabNUlBhSiu0cGMe4IMpkA)


	4. Knock on Wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for content warnings, etc.

**_I'm not superstitious, about you_ **

**_But I can't take no chance_ **

**_You got me spinnin' baby_ **

**_You know that I'm in a trance_ **

_21 September 1979, 9:55 am_

Francis took the stairs two by two to the second floor as the commotion continued, following the sound of hammering and muffled shouting. His shoes slipped on the slick hardwood floor as he came to a skidding halt on the landing, and he grabbed the banister to keep himself upright just as James came up behind him and very nearly crashed into him. Francis felt the brief pressure of hands at his waist before James astutely moved around him.

“Sorry, Francis.”

“I said not to call me that.”

“Where the devil is all that noise coming from?” grumbled Sir John, craning his neck to peer down the corridor. Francis followed his gaze, sweeping the landing and the balcony as suddenly, from down the corridor where their bedrooms were located, a massive crash sounded, following by the now anything but muffled shouts of multiple people.

“I think,” Francis said, pushing past James, “you have your answer.”

They rounded the corner – Francis at the lead, with James at his back and Sir John trailing behind them, leading a scattered group of bemused staff like a train of ducklings. The staff were chattering, but it was not their voices that concerned Francis; it was the raised ones shouting at each other round the corner – the bald terror in their tones.

“What in God’s name _was_ that?” That was Irving’s voice; Francis recognized him even with the uncharacteristic swearing that preceded his question. Somebody replied to him, and he let loose another string of oaths.

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck.”_

“John, will you shut the fuck up?”

Francis stopped short as the corridor came into view, unfolding a bizarre scene before him. Irving was on his ass on the floor, curled up against the wall and shaking like a leaf. Pressed into the corner was the lodge’s concierge, his face pale and still, and beside him, standing close together and looming over the trembling Irving, were Little and –

“Thomas?”

Jopson froze, his back to Francis, and then slowly turned his head. Pure panic flitted across his features, but he schooled them quickly into neutrality, breaking into a charming smile. Brushing his forelock aside, he straightened and said:

“Hello Mr. Crozier, sir. So sorry about this – did we interrupt you?”

James appeared at Francis’ side, angling himself so that he loomed over both Francis and the crumpled group in the corner. His brows drew low over his dark eyes, and his lips pressed tightly together as he clenched his jaw. Stern-faced and controlled like this, he looked much more the imposing executive than he had before, jewelry or no.

“What,” he said, drawing his words out slowly, “in the name of Christ is going on here?”

The group gaped, opening and closing their mouths like a school of terrified fish. Irving cast a guilty look up at Little, who passed it along to Jopson. Jopson fidgeted in place, clearly fishing for an excuse, but when he opened his mouth it was another voice that spoke.

“It was my doing, Mr. Crozier, sir.”

Jopson’s face changed, and he whirled around as Hickey, one of the interns, emerged from behind him.

“Where the hell did you come from?” demanded Jopson.

“What do you mean?” Hickey frowned, stepping around him. “I’ve been here this whole time; we just saw each other.”

Jopson pointed to Hickey, then glanced up at the attic hatchway above them. He cocked his head, but Hickey ignored him, turning his beady gaze on Francis.

“Sorry about the noise, sir,” he said, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. “We were – ah – it’s a bit of a long story.” His mouth pulled into a lopsided grin.

Francis glared at him, working his jaw. Despite the fact that Hickey was only an intern, he somehow always managed to be at the center of whatever workplace shenanigans were going on at a given time. Sir John tolerated him, but he’d been on Crozier’s shit list ever since he’d been caught skimming off the top of the office pizza fund. Anyone who used that much hair product – James tentatively excluded – wasn’t to be trusted, anyway.

“We, ah –” Little cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Sorry, sir. It was an accident; we were up in the attic and we fell through.”

“Up in the attic doing _what?”_

“We –”

“We were holding a séance, Mr. Crozier,” interrupted Hickey.

Silence. Little closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent oath. Hickey held up a rectangular object – one Francis regrettably recognized immediately.

“A Ouija board?” he said tiredly. “This is what’s caused all this panic?”

“Something spoke to us through it, sir,” Hickey said. “I’m sure of it. Told us to get out, it did. Killed the lights and all sorts.”

Francis raised his brows.

“It was all theatrics, sir, I’m sure of it,” Little interjected.

“You didn’t think that ten minutes ago,” Hickey snapped. “You were the first one to see it.”

Little curled his lip. “There is no such thing as ghosts –”

“Actually, parapsychology is a legitimate branch of research,” piped up a small voice from behind Francis. He turned and saw Mr. Goodsir, the other intern, hovering and craning his neck trying to see the Ouija board. Hickey gestured to Goodsir as if his testimony constituted proof of his claims.

“See?” he said. “ _A legitimate branch of research_.”

“Be quiet, Mr. Hickey,” Francis said. Snatching the board from Hickey’s hands, he held it up in front of the group and fixed them all with a glare. “This,” he said, “was a bunch of childish nonsense, do you hear me? You nearly gave me a heart attack, you gullible fools.”

“Sorry, sir,” Irving warbled, “but it seemed awfully realistic; I really did hear something, and the lights did go out!”

“Mr. Irving –”

Francis was cut off, a reprimand frozen on his lips, when suddenly a loud creak sounded from above him, followed by a distinctly electric crackle. Leaning back, he watched as the lights above them flickered and surged, taking a full five seconds before settling. Irving, Little, and Jopson watched wide-eyed, but Hickey only seemed impressed. Beside Francis, James breathed a quiet oath.

“Are you quite certain, sir,” Hickey said, “that there’s no such thing as ghosts? Because I think there’s one here, in this lodge.” He swept the room with his beady gaze, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “And it does not want us here.”

**______________**

**_When you lose control, and you’ve got no soul_ **

**_It's tragedy_ **

**_When the morning cries and your heart just dies_ **

**_It's hard to bear_ **

**_With no-one beside you, you're goin' nowhere_ **

****

_22 September, 1:52 pm_

_Back hiking trail, two and a half miles from the lodge_

Edward’s nose and fingers were frozen, his calves burned with the force of exertion, and he was half snow-blind, having forgotten his sunglasses at the lodge, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. After the events of yesterday, and the incessant pestering from the others which had followed, he would have taken any excuse to get out of that damned lodge – even if ‘getting out of the lodge’ meant embarking on the suicide mission that was a winter hike with Graham Gore.

The snow came down in fat, drifting flakes, sticking to their wool scarves and catching in Edward’s chops, yet Graham showed no signs of stopping. Armed with his professional-grade trekking poles and fur-lined boots, he strode confidently at the head of the group, leaving Edward and Goodsir, the only two people stupid enough to go with him, to wade through the drifts left in his wake.

Goodsir was taking it in stride, talking cheerfully about facts he’d read about Canadian wildlife in preparation for the trip, and Gore seemed perfectly happy to listen to him, but Edward was incapable of being cheerful, even more than usual. A heavy, twisting anxious feeling had been riding low in his gut for two days now, and since yesterday’s incident it had begun to feel like it would eat him alive. The hike was helping a little, but there was only so much he could do to quiet his mind. He kept seeing that shadow lurking in the woods outside the lodge; kept recalling the threats the Ouija board had spelled out beneath his fingers. Kept wondering if the two were connected, if seeing the entity twice meant he was marked or something.

“And if you make enough noise, they’ll most likely just run away,” Goodsir was saying, breathless and halting as they summited a small hill. “Grizzly bears, on the other hand, are much more prone to charging, so you’re better off playing dead.”

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Goodsir,” Graham said, striking his trekking pole into the ground to haul himself up and over a rock. “I shall keep that in mind, should we run into any bears.”

“Oh, that’s not likely during the winter season,” Goodsir said. “They’re hibernating!”

Edward hauled himself over the rock with much less grace than Gore, emerging at the summit of the hill, in a clearing backed by trees which opened onto an overlook. Goodsir stared out at the sprawling landscape as they paused to catch their breath, squinting into the bright sun and smiling broadly.

“Wow,” he breathed, wiping snow from the palms of his mittens. “Would you look at that?”

“It sure is something, isn’t it?” Graham shoved his trekking poles into the snow and planted his hands on his hips, staring at the view. His breath plumed before his face, but he was breathing evenly, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes brightened by the exercise. Edward, on the other hand, was hanging back by the path and fighting to catch his breath, bracing his hands on his knees as he sucked down frigid gulps of air that scraped his lungs like serrated blades.

_I’m out of shape,_ he thought. _Fuck, I’m_ really _out of shape._

“Come and look at this, Ed!”

Edward looked up at Graham’s voice. He was waving him over, grinning as if the grueling terrain and inhospitable weather were nothing but a trifle. Edward couldn’t begrudge him his enthusiasm for the outdoors, but he couldn’t help the spark of irritation that his cheerfulness provoked.

_Not everyone can scramble up mountainsides like a goat, Graham,_ he thought. _Have some compassion for us mere mortals._

“It really is quite beautiful, Mr. Little,” Goodsir offered. At that, Edward couldn’t help but smile. Harry Goodsir might be just an intern, the same as Mr. Hickey, but he was infinitely more worthy of the opportunity. Edward sniffed and straightened; it burned slightly less when he breathed now, and he felt capable of closing the six-foot gap between him and the others. Shrugging his backpack back into place, he walked over to the cliffside and stood beside Goodsir, staring out at the landscape.

A sprawling valley of white lay before him, monochrome swells of rock and trees extending as far as he could see. The sun gleamed weakly behind the thick gray clouds, occasionally breaking through to bathe a section of the horizon in glittering yellow light, and all around them swirled the snow, a thin veil of white between them and the surreal beauty before them.

Edward huffed out a cloudy breath. It really was quite stunning. Formidable, and somewhat chilling, but beautiful too.

“Isn’t it just breathtaking?” sighed Goodsir. Edward nodded.

“It certainly is impressive,” he said.

Graham turned to face him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Worth the early rise, wasn’t it?” he said. Edward scoffed. He wasn’t sure anything was worth getting up at six in the morning, but he let Graham have it.

Laughing, Graham turned and walked away from them, scrambling up a large snow-covered boulder to get a better vantage point. Edward and Goodsir watched him in silent consensus that neither of them would be joining in.

“I was grateful for the opportunity to come on this hike,” said Goodsir. Edward turned to look at him, and he smiled, his apple cheeks ruddy and dimpled. He shrugged, rubbing his hands together. “It was getting a little stuffy in the lodge,” he said. “What with all the – commotion.”

Edward grimaced. That was one way of putting it.

Goodsir shuffled his feet, glancing down at the ground and taking a breath in a way that Edward knew meant he was gearing up to say something on his mind. He knew what it was before Goodsir said it, but because it was Goodsir specifically, he didn’t stop him.

“Did you really see a ghost, Mr. Little?” he asked, looking up at Edward from an odd angle, like an inquisitive child. “I mean, did you actually make contact, up in the attic?”

Edward sighed, watching the cloud of his breath fog and dissipate. He’d seen this coming; Goodsir had been polite in refraining from questioning him directly after the fact, but everyone at Terrebus knew that the young intern had strange hobbies, among them an interest in the controversial science of parapsychology. He’d yap to anyone who’d listen about the Warrens, and he was a self-professed “amateur paranormal investigator,” though what that amounted to, Edward hadn't the faintest idea. He only knew – as was very evident just now – that it meant that Goodsir wanted to know about the ghost more than just about anyone at the lodge.

“Sorry if it’s a sensitive subject,” Goodsir said. “I know that a first experience can be extraordinarily jarring – many people report it as a kind of religious experience, but in reverse. Of course, it might not in fact be your first contact; did you ever experience strange things as a child, or –”

“I don’t know what I saw, Mr. Goodsir,” said Edward, cutting him off a little brusquely. “But it sure as hell wasn’t a ghost.”

Goodsir paused, his mouth slightly open. His boots shuffled in the snow. “But – but Mr. Hickey said –”

“I don’t care what Mr. Hickey said,” Edward snapped. “He’s the one who dragged us all into it in the first place. If you want information about your ghost, go ask him.”

Goodsir blanched and closed his mouth, looking as though he’d been struck. Edward felt an immediate jolt of regret, and he closed his eyes, shame burning in his cold face.

“I –” He worked his jaw, flexing his frozen fingers at his sides. “I’m sorry, Mr. Goodsir,” he said. “That was – rude.”

Goodsir’s face softened immediately, his smile coming back after a moment’s suppression. “It’s alright,” he chirped. “Like I said, a first experience is hard.”

Edward bit back the retort that he didn’t believe he’d even _had_ an experience as Graham came jogging back over to them, beaming and flushed.

“View’s great up there,” he said, gesturing to the boulder he’d been climbing. “We ought to get going, though. We need to haul ass if we’re going to make the summit this afternoon.”

Edward blanched. “You mean we’re not already _at_ the summit?”

Graham laughed, yanking his trekking poles out of the snow. “Hell no!” He gestured to the path ahead, indicating the sheer, heavily wooded side of the mountain. A perilous distance above them, the tree line gave way to a cap of boulders thrusting defiantly up into the gray sky. Graham grinned. “ _That_ is the summit.”

Edward’s mouth fell open. Goodsir brushed past him, patting him on the shoulder on the way.

“Cheer up,” he said. “It’s a lovely day for a hike!”

Edward swallowed. He glanced behind him, briefly considering breaking from the others and returning to the lodge alone, but then that tightness returned in his stomach, that feeling of wrongness that worsened every time he looked into the trees.

_Hell no,_ he thought. Shaking himself, he put his chin down into his coat collar and hurried to catch up with Goodsir.

The snow was coming down hard by the time they were halfway up the steep incline to the summit. Edward could just barely see Goodsir and Graham about six feet ahead of him, and the path had become all but obscured beneath his feet. On either side of him loomed the trees, leaning in to form a kind of piqued tunnel that did little to block the snowfall and everything to obscure the sunlight.

“Are we almost there?” he heard Goodsir ask, his cheery tone dulled somewhat by the exhaustion in his voice. Graham paused and turned around, squinting back at them through the snow. He tilted his head back, trying to see the through the trees, and said:

“We have to be.”

“There’s only this one path, right?” Edward asked, joining Goodsir and Graham. Graham nodded, adjusting his wool cap, and looked around them. The monotony of fir trees had been broken, and they now stood in a small clearing ringed with mingled aspens and spindly dark spruces. The trees here were more widely spaced, but seeing beyond them was still a struggle; the snow had been whipped up into a dense fog which hung low between their trunks, giving them a somewhat ghostly appearance.

Edward shifted. The tightness in his gut had returned, weighing him down and making his stomach hurt as though he’d eaten something rotten. His chest felt tight too, and the back of his neck prickled. He felt like a prey animal that was just figuring out it was being stalked.

“Maybe we should turn back,” he said, flexing his fingers in his gloves. Casting a furtive glance behind him, he swallowed a bout of anxiety, and shivered – from the cold, he told himself. “We don’t want to get lost in the storm.”

“Edward might be right,” said Goodsir, hitching up his backpack. “It’ll be dark by the time we get back.”

Graham looked despondently at the path ahead. “But we’re so close,” he said weakly.

“We can always try again when the snow lessens,” Goodsir placated.

“ _If_ the snow lessens,” said Edward, under his breath.

Graham deliberated, chewing his bottom lip. Edward shifted from one foot to the other, staunchly ignoring the flight response simmering in his blood.

_It’s just the woods,_ he thought. _There’s nothing to be frightened of in the woods._

“How about this,” Graham began. “What if we –”

He froze, the words choking themselves immediately as in the distance there suddenly came a noise, cutting through the silence like a gunshot. Something between a roar and a guttural yell, it reverberated through the forest and scared a flock of birds out of one of the taller spruce trees. Edward felt it pass through him like an electric shock, standing every one of his hairs on end and curdling his blood like milk. The tightness in his stomach turned to lead. His ribs constricted, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He couldn’t speak – but Goodsir did.

“What was that?” The intern’s round face had gone ashen, his eyes wide and bright behind his foggy glasses. Graham gaped, his brows knitted together beneath the rim of his cap.

“Couldn’t tell you,” he said. “Bear, maybe?”

As if in response, the roar came again, shuddering the snow beneath Edward’s feet. It was closer now, and there was more than animal rage in it – there was something of malice, too.

Edward took a step backwards. “That’s no bear,” he said. “You read up on the wildlife here, Mr. Goodsir – ever hear of a bear that makes a noise like that?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” stuttered Goodsir, tucking his hands fearfully up to his chest.

Graham’s face had gone stony. “We should go,” he said. Not taking his eyes off the trees ahead, he walked back down to Edward and Goodsir, waving them down the path. “Go. Off the mountain, now.”

They turned, shuffling back towards the cover of the trees. Edward’s anxiety had turned into full panic now, and he’d never been so happy to be told to do something.

Then all hell broke loose.

It all happened at once, and within the same split second. Edward’s eyes were trained on the path ahead, but he whirled around instantly when he heard Graham scream. He caught one fleeting glance of his friend’s terrified face, pink against the snow, and then he was gone, and there was blood where he had just been. Goodsir, stumbling backwards and crashing into Edward, let out a horrified scream, but it was swallowed by another roar – this one seeming to come from all around them, and far too close for comfort.

“Run.” The word came out quiet at first, barely a hoarse whisper. Edward tried again. Grabbing Goodsir’s coat sleeve, he summoned his voice and shouted: _“Run!”_

Another roar, and an accompanying human scream – Graham’s scream. Not far off the path, a tremendous crack sounded, and a tree collapsed, snapping in half like a twig beneath some massive weight. Something instinctual and protective came to life inside of Edward, and he pushed Goodsir in front of him before barreling down the path. He heard himself shout “run” again, but it sounded far away, his own voice but heard underwater, or from behind thick glass. His legs moved mechanically, carrying him over rocks and down steep inclines with relative ease, though he had to keep his arms spread out at his sides like wings to keep from losing his balance. He was dimly aware that he’d left his trekking poles stuck in the snow behind him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Fuck them. He wouldn’t be taking any more hikes any time soon.

He and Goodsir were barreling down the path at top speed, but Edward could tell that whatever was pursuing them was faster. Footsteps rumbled behind them, a rapid thunder of something on four legs – or was it two? It seemed to change, sometimes letting up only to redouble its speed even closer than before, as if it had switched its mode of locomotion mid-run. Edward’s mind struggled to make sense of it even as he ran, and its unpredictability only made him more afraid.

_We need to be unpredictable too._

The thought rose with sudden clarity. Ducking beneath a branch, Edward sucked in a precious breath and bellowed:

“Goodsir! Get off the path!”

A rumbling growl behind him, and Edward dove to the side, putting up his arms to shield his face as he crashed into the undergrowth. He rolled as he hit the ground, wincing as the sides of his ribs took the brunt of the impact. Twigs and tree bark tore at his coat, but mercifully avoided putting out his eyes. As soon as he was on stable ground he crawled for cover, diving beneath the overhang of a large rock and pressing himself deep into the recess. He could still hear the thing coming, but it had slowed, and he only prayed its sense of smell was worse than its sight.

The footsteps stopped, and silence descended. Edward pulled his knees up to his chest and breathed into his coat collar, keeping as silent as possible. He was trembling all over, his pulse hammering in his ears, but he’d never felt so alive – so afraid.

Snow trickled down from above him, disturbed from the surface of the rock. Edward caught his breath, holding it.

Above him, snuffling.

There was breath, fogging in massive plumes in the air before him. Edward could _hear_ it breathing, could hear the steady inhalation of something with massive lungs. It sniffed the air, huffing in frustration when it couldn’t locate the source of the scent. Edward gripped his knees so tightly his fingers hurt.

And then, receding footsteps. There was a great thud as the thing stepped over the rock, and Edward watched as something white and quadrupedal and absolutely _massive_ lumbered back into the trees, down and to the west.

Edward’s heart stopped dead in his chest. Before his eyes flashed the memory of the thing he’d seen outside the lodge, that night with Graham. A large pale shape, detaching itself from the trees and melting into the darkness as easily as if it weren’t substantial at all.

_Same thing._ The thought flitted across Edward’s mind, but he wasn’t capable of processing it. He waited until he could no longer see the thing lumbering away – until he couldn’t hear the slow rumble of its footsteps, and then crawled out from beneath his rock. Keeping low to the ground, he slunk through the underbrush back to the path.

“Goodsir?” he whispered into the snow. “Harry?”

“Edward!”

Edward whipped around, and Goodsir’s white face appeared from between the trees on the other side of the path. Relief flooded Edward, and he checked behind him before darting over to Goodsir, diving into the bushes with him.

“Are you alright?” he hissed. Goodsir nodded, his dark curls bouncing. He’d lost his cap, and he was covered in snow, as if he’d rolled through a drift.

“W – what was that thing?” he stammered. Edward shook his head.

“Hell if I could tell you.” He laughed, despite himself. “You’re the wilderness expert here.”

Goodsir huffed a breath, what might, under different circumstances, have passed for a laugh. Gripping his shoulder briefly, Edward jerked his head.

“Come on,” he said. “We need to go.”

Goodsir hesitated. “Shouldn’t we look for Mr. Gore?”

Edward swallowed. His mind flashed back to that split second he’d been able to see Graham – to the amount of blood that had painted the snow in his wake. Nobody could survive the loss of so much.

He shook his head. “Graham’s gone,” he said. “I saw.”

Goodsir’s face twisted, opening into an expression of pure, open grief. Edward squeezed his shoulder, looking directly into his eyes.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he said sternly – as sternly as he could manage. “What’s important now is that we get back to the lodge and get help. We can call the police, organize a proper search. This is a matter for the authorities.”

Goodsir nodded; that logical approach seemed to calm him. Edward nodded, and when Goodsir nodded back he gently guided him out of the trees, back onto the path.

“Keep your ears open,” he said. “Make as little noise as possible. You hear anything, we take cover. Understand?”

Goodsir bobbed his head. Edward gave a trembling thumbs up and gestured for Goodsir to precede him. After a final sweep of the woods for that hulking white shape, Edward plodded after him down the path, trying to control the trembling in his body.

Around them, the snow worsened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings (chapter 4): gore, both described and implied | character death, implied | heavy swearing 
> 
> Shit's getting real, y'all. 
> 
> as always, thank you [winedark-maverick](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/winedark-maverick) for beta-ing! None of this chaos would be possible without you. 
> 
> [accompanying playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6MIWnB6NVskBmnnNtwdRe2?si=tnG4-dmsR3iX-wKhoST8kQ)


	5. Psycho Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please refer to the end notes for content warnings &tc. Enjoy, lovelies! :)

**_You start a conversation, you can't even finish it_ **

**_You're talking a lot, but you're not saying anything_ **

**_When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed_ **

**_Say something once, why say it again?_ **

****

_22 September 1979, 4:45 pm_

_King William Lodge_

“You really should try to be more of a friend to him, James,” said Sir John as he turned the record over. “He’s had a hard run of it.”

James tipped his rocks glass in his hand, watching the brandy slosh from side to side. There was a crackle as Sir John dropped the needle, and Peter Gabriel’s voice drifted softly across the room to him.

Sir John returned to his seat, dropping casually onto the leather couch. He picked up his mug of tea and crossed one leg over his knee, regarding James with a softened expression.

“He’s just –” James tilted his head and worried the inside of his cheek. “He’s rather alarmist, is all,” he said. “The men are anxious about the storm, and I don’t think they would be if he weren’t practically shouting into a megaphone that we’re being snowed in.”

Sir John’s brows went up and he angled his head in a silent acknowledgement. Even he couldn’t have failed to notice Francis’ insistence on that point; the loud and brash way he complained to anyone who would listen about the severity of the blizzard. Combined with the rousing effect Mr. Hickey’s highly embellished ghost story was having on the staff, Francis’ worry was setting the stage for a perfect storm of anxiety.

“Francis is only being cautious,” Sir John tempered. “He and I both know how quickly things can go south up here.”

“Still.” James crossed his legs, huffing a sigh. “He acts like we’re going to be trapped for weeks, forced to hunt for food like proper survivalists.” He took a sip of his brandy, looking at Sir John over the rim of his glass.

“And he’s getting to you, too,” he said. Sir John raised a brow, and James shook his head. “You’re worried now because of him.” He raised his glass, pointing a finger at Sir John. “I won’t have his shit attitude touch you, understand?”

Sir John laughed, holding his mug of tea close to his face. “Your concern is appreciated, James,” he said.

James sniffed petulantly, settling back in his chair. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was about Francis Crozier that ruffled him so much, but from the moment of their introduction – James’ first day at Terrebus, actually – he’d been constantly on James’ mind, an irritating burr pricking at the edge of his thoughts. He was certainly a capable executive, if a little bit loose with his principles – though perhaps that was why the staff liked him so much. A boss with a drink in his hand was that much easier to deal with, however much of a hardass he might generally be. 

And yet James had always submitted so readily to his leadership, and not just in the boardroom. He thought back to the team building seminar; Francis had come down those stairs half-drunk and had almost flat-out refused to participate, and yet when chaos had broken out, he’d been the one to take the lead – and James had followed him, had trusted him as naturally as if they’d been partners for years. It was like the trust exercise itself. James had fallen back into Francis’ arms without question, and despite all his blustering, Francis had caught him, steady as stone.

It was that steadiness, James thought, turning his glass. Francis was rough – rough edges, rough hands – but steady, immovable as a rock.

The imprint of those rough hands on James’ back, on his shoulders, still simmered beneath the skin when James thought on it too long. They burned there now, prickling beneath the turtleneck of his sweater, down his spine, to the tips of his fingers and toes.

James took a long pull off his drink.

“And anyhow,” Sir John was saying, having clearly kept the conversation going even without James’ participation, “when the time comes for promotion, he can hardly hope to make the list with such an attitude.”

James blinked himself back into reality. “Don’t tell me he’ll be denied a deserved promotion because of his attitude,” he backpedaled. “I never meant to –”

“ _You,_ on the other hand,” Sir John plowed on, smiling over the rim of his mug. “You can expect –”

The sudden slamming of a door downstairs cut him off, and James paused mid-sip as it was followed by a commotion of voices. Sir John, visibly irritated, set his mug roughly down on a side table.

“What now?” he grumbled.

James frowned, listening. Dundy was talking, as was George Hodgson from Francis’ staff, their voices raised above the muffled chatter of several other people. He couldn’t make out their words, but their tones were clear. Alarm bells went off in his head, and he set his drink aside, getting up from his chair. Sir John watched him without moving to get up himself.

“What are they saying?” he asked. “Is it bad?”

James flexed his fingers, curling them apprehensively into fists. “I’ll go and see.”

He hurried out of the library and onto the balcony, gripping the railing as he leaned over to see what the matter was. Below him, in the foyer, a cluster of staff had gathered around two snow-covered figures collapsed on the floor. The junior execs were crowded around them, along with two of the lodge’s caretakers – James recognized Bridgens, the actual property manager, but he couldn’t remember the name of the other one, he only knew that he was rude and excessively proud of the fact that he’d gone to medical school. He stooped over the figures on the floor as the others peppered them with questions, apparently conducting some kind of ad hoc first aid examination. And as James descended the stairs and got closer to the group, he saw why.

One of the snowy figures had a smear of something red on his coat, a bright slash against the pale fabric. It was drying around the edges, but in places it was still shiny. Still wet.

“What the hell’s this?”

James flinched at the sudden sound of Francis’ voice in his ear. He turned to look at him and took in the flush in his cheeks, the wrinkles in his shirt, the whiskey on his breath, but said nothing about any of it.

“No idea,” he said, raising his gaze to meet Francis’. His eyes were glassy, but there was lucidity in them, and they sharpened to icy clarity as he took in the scene below. He and James exchanged another look, and then hurried down the stairs together.

“Ed, you have to tell us what happened,” Hodgson was saying, bending over the larger of the two figures. The man raised his snow-covered head, revealing his face, and James’ brain finally made the connection and recognized who these people were. It was Graham Gore’s hiking party – minus Graham Gore.

Edward Little shook his head as Hodgson asked him another question. He was on his knees in a semi-crouched position in a puddle of rapidly melting snow, his nose red and his chops flecked with white. Beside him, sitting back on his feet like a child in school, was Goodsir. It was his parka that was torn and stained, his skin that was peeking through the layers of blue nylon and orange quilted lining, but apparently, according to how he was answering the quiet entreaties of the lodge caretakers, it was _not_ his blood.

“No, I’m perfectly fine, it’s just a scratch – look, no blood drawn!” He held up his arm placidly, showing it to the rude caretaker – Stanley, James thought, the name suddenly surfacing in his mind. Frowning, Stanley peered at the wound, and his lack of concern affirmed to James that Goodsir was telling the truth. But if it wasn’t Goodsir’s blood, then –

“—didn’t get us, only Graham.” Little’s voice came to James over the din, carrying the words James had desperately hoped he wouldn’t have to hear. “It took him, he’s gone.”

“But what _happened_ to him?” Hodgson pressed Little, wringing his hands.

“Was it a bear?” asked Irving, peering over Hodgson’s shoulder.

“I think it’ll come out with a little baking soda and vinegar,” Goodsir said calmly to Stanley, who was still examining the bloodstain on his jacket.

The din, growing louder by the minute as everyone struggled to make their individual voices heard, was growing intolerable. James was beginning to grow irritated, and beside him Francis had set his shoulders back like he was gearing up to punch someone. Little held up his mittened hands, trying to gesture that he didn’t have the answers everyone wanted, but the questions just kept coming. James felt something inside him snap, and with an utterance of “Christ on a stick,” he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly.

_“Men!”_ he shouted, riding the shock of the whistle to grab everyone’s attention. Immediately silence fell, and all eyes were on him.

James huffed a breath, shaking back his hair. “That’s better,” he said. “Now, will everyone kindly shut up, _except_ Messrs. Goodsir and Little. Edward, Harry, please explain to us, as best you can, and in the most sequential order you can, what on God’s green earth is going on.”

Little and Goodsir looked at each other. Goodsir opened his mouth, then closed it again. He adjusted his foggy spectacles with a thickly gloved hand, swallowed, and tried again.

“Well, sir, it’s –”

“It’s difficult to explain,” Little said, apparently finding his voice at the same moment.

“It all happened so quickly; you see –”

“We didn’t actually see where Graham went –”

“But we _assumed_ –”

“Alright, hold on.” James put a hand up. “One at a time, please. Edward, you first. From the beginning.”

Little nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He shifted his legs, his coat rustling as he plopped down onto the ground. Folding his mittens in his lap, he stared resolutely ahead and said slowly:

“We were on a hike. Graham, Harry, and I, on the Back Trail. We got almost to the summit, it was snowing pretty bad, and we were worried we might’ve gotten lost.”

“The trees all look the same up there,” Goodsir chimed in, “even though they’re different species – firs and spruces, you know, are very difficult to tell apart, but if you roll the needles between your fingers –”

James shot him a look. He quieted, and Little continued.

“We were trying to decide what to do,” Little said. “Turn back, or press on. That’s when we heard it.”

“Heard what?” James asked.

“A roar,” Goodsir answered for him. “Something horribly loud and – powerful. It reverberated, like a sonar signal, shaking the very ground beneath us. It was unlike any animal sound I’ve ever heard.”

Little nodded as Goodsir spoke, his gaze still unfocused. James frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And then what?”

“It took Graham.” Little spoke the words flatly, and without emotion, but he curled his lip as he spoke, rage simmering beneath the blank surface of his face.

“What do you mean,” Francis said, piping up for the first time, “it _took Graham?”_

“He was just gone,” Goodsir said. “Like – he was standing there, and then, in an instant, gone. Just like that.”

“That thing took him,” Little said.

“What was ‘that thing?’” Francis asked.

Little shook his head, wrapping his arms around his middle. His snarl had turned into a grimace now, his lips pressed together as if he might be sick. Francis approached him, crouching at his side. 

“Edward,” he said softly, “what was it?”

Little didn’t answer. James swallowed, hard, and cleared his throat, giving voice to the question everyone was too afraid to ask.

“Is Graham dead?”

Silence. Little looked up slowly, but he made no answer. Goodsir, however, nodded; subtly, but firmly, and with a straight face. James’ stomach plummeted. The floor tilted beneath him, jerking like the deck of a ship at sea, but he forced himself to stay calm, to keep his voice steady as he asked:

“How can you be certain?”

Goodsir blinked innocently. “The amount of blood, sir, on the ice,” he said. “Nobody could have survived the loss of so much.” 

James worked his jaw. The others had begun to chatter again, and he silenced them with a gesture.

“Did you _see_ what it was took Graham?” Francis asked Little. James noticed his careful omission of the word _killed._

Little shook his head, his brows knitting together. “Yes – no – kind of. It was white; it blended in. Hard to see. But I know it wasn’t human.”

That was the wrong thing to say. The buzz of chatter rose again, this time laced with panic. James caught the words “killer” and “ghost” among the muffled words, and then a clear, loud proclamation from the back of the room.

“The board _did_ tell us to run, sirs.”

Irving stepped aside as Hickey shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. His expression was sympathetic, but James recognized false softness, and saw the glitter of triumph behind it. Casting his gaze up to the rafters, Hickey spread his hands in a theatrical gesture.

“This house has an entity within it,” he said, his voice taking on a droning, ecclesiastical quality. “We ignored its warning, and now Mr. Gore has paid the price.”

Francis got to his feet in a swift, stiff motion, startling Little with the movement. His gaze bored into Hickey, and James thought there must be few men in this world who could withstand such a look, but Hickey stood firm, his features frozen in that simpering expression. Francis jabbed a finger at him, his lips pulling back in a snarl.

“This is no time for your antics, Mr. Hickey,” he growled. “Shut up about the fucking ghost, this is a serious problem.”

Hickey’s brows went up. “Mr. Little said it wasn’t human,” he protested.

“Mr. Little,” said Francis, “was terrified out of his wits. What he saw was either a bear or a human being, most likely the latter.” He raised his voice on that last sentence, making sure it was heard by all. The statement was met, James saw, with looks of skepticism.

“This thing, whatever it is, is real,” Francis continued. “And real problems –” He shoved Hickey aside, pushing through the crowd towards the dining room. “—can be solved.”

James followed Francis through the lounge and into the dining room, where a telephone was mounted to the wall by the buffet. Francis marched over to it and snatched up the receiver, spinning the dial with fierce, choppy motions. James saw him dial three digits – heard the voice answer him.

_“Jasper police department, what is your emergency?”_

“Yes, hello.” Francis leaned tiredly against the wall, bracing his forearm above his head. “We’ve had an animal attack of some kind – one person missing, possibly dead.”

_“Your location?”_

“King William Lodge, about fifty kilometers north –” Francis stopped as the line suddenly cut, the harsh beeping audible even to James and the assembled staff crowding the doorway. Francis swore, tried to reconnect. Behind James, Mr. Hickey said:

“You see, we’re paying the price. All of us.” 

James watched Francis’ features contort, the rage that boiled inside him flickering for one split second on the surface of his face. Then his jaw tightened, closing like a vice around the things he probably wanted to say – wanted to shout – and he put the receiver down with deceptive gentleness.

“Well?” That was Dundy’s voice. Francis looked up, worrying at his bottom lip.

“Line’s dead,” he said. “Must be the storm.”

“Hm,” said Mr. Hickey.

“We’ll try again in the morning,” Francis said, pushing off the wall. “And we’ll try to look for Graham, too. What we will _not_ do is panic.”

An uneasy shuffling of the crowd, but nobody challenged the edict. Francis’ gaze swept the group, falling on someone in the back.

“Thomas, take Mr. Little and Mr. Goodsir upstairs and help them clean up. Everyone else, go to bed. Nothing else can be done tonight.”

Francis’ shoulder brushed James’ as he walked past. James watched him go, trying to avoid staring at him with the same bald-faced terror that was so evident in the faces of the others. He could feel it – fear, cold and writhing in the pit of his stomach, but he swallowed and imagined himself tamping it down like a stubborn weed. Francis was right. Nothing else could be done tonight, and panic would only make things worse.

James sniffed. Adjusted his belt.

“Right,” he said, addressing the men now. “Mini bar, anyone?”

**______________**

**_Meet me in the middle of the day_ **

**_Let me hear you say, everything’s okay_ **

**_Bring me southern kisses from your room_ **

****

_5:20 pm_

Tom wasn’t an anxious kind of guy, he really wasn’t. He wasn’t afraid of heights or the dark, blood or strangers or the vast unknown. He took shady business and dirty work in stride, and he’d never been cowed by the gritty or the scandalous.

Treating the minor injuries of men one hardly knew while alone with them in one’s bedroom counted as both gritty _and_ scandalous, but Tom had never been afraid of things like that before, either. And consequently he found it extraordinarily difficult to explain to himself why, as he sat on the edge of his bed beside a ruffled and exhausted Ned Little, rifling through a first aid kit for an alcohol wipe with which to disinfect the bloody scratches crisscrossing his face, Tom was scared positively shitless. His hands shook as he dug through piles of Band-Aids and those weird reflective shock blankets, and it was starting to piss him off, because there was no explanation for it, no _reason_ for him to be this afraid, and Tom would be damned if he made a fool of himself in front of Ned for anything less than the best and most rational of reasons.

“Honestly, it’s not that bad.”

Ned raised a tentative hand, gently touching the shallow scratch beneath his left eye. His fingers came away dry, but his eye involuntarily squinted in pain at the touch. Tom paused his rifling, lifting his gaze. 

“It still needs cleaning,” he said. “It _will_ be that bad if it gets infected.”

Ned sniffed, but didn’t protest. He dropped his hand back into his lap, and out of the corner of his eye Tom followed the movement, noting the dried mud spattering the front of Ned’s jeans. There were bits of leaves and twigs caked into the mud, and smudged in with them, dark patches – red patches. 

Tom swallowed his revulsion, and with it the fucked-up thought, continually resurfacing in his mind, that that was human blood on Ned’s Levi’s – Graham Gore’s blood, a human man they’d all known. A man who’d been alive this morning and wasn’t alive now.

_“The amount of blood, sir – nobody could have survived the loss of so much.”_ That’s what Goodsir had said, and Goodsir had gone to pre-med school, so he knew what he was on about.

_Doesn’t leave much room for doubt, does it?_

Tom found the packet of alcohol wipes and pulled them out, along with a large Band-Aid. Shifting on the bed, he turned to face Ned and set aside the rag he’d been using to clean up his face.

“Hey, can you look back at me?”

Ned turned his head obediently, abandoning his previous protests.

“This bit’s going to hurt,” Tom said, tearing open the packet. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ned said tiredly. He scooted a bit closer to Tom, bringing his thigh flush against Tom’s, and turned his face to give Tom a better angle. He hadn’t been lying; the cut was actually quite superficial – a miracle, considering he’d apparently acquired it by barrel-rolling into a cluster of bushes.

_You must have been genuinely terrified to do something like that,_ Tom thought. He watched Ned’s face as he gently applied the alcohol wipe, watched the minute tightening of his jaw and the slight scrunch of his nose as he held back a wince. Ever since he’d known him, Tom had thought of Ned Little as a supremely stoic person. He took torrents of shit from Crozier and Sir John, shouldering burdens that weren’t his to carry and taking responsibility for things he shouldn’t have to, and he did it all without complaint, without so much as a grimace. He hadn’t flinched when Crozier and Fitzjames had gone for each other’s throats at the airport, and even when the Terror had nearly slid off the road multiple times during the drive up to the lodge, he hadn’t batted an eye. Nothing, it seemed, could scare him. He was unflappable. 

Or so it had seemed, until tonight. Tonight, something had scared him so bad he’d thrown himself off the side of a mountain to get away from it. Scared him so bad he wouldn’t even talk about it. Couldn’t even remember what he’d seen, though he swore he _had_ seen it.

Whatever “it” was. There were already plenty of opinions circulating on that subject; Irving and LeVesconte thought it was a bear, but Tom doubted that. Bears didn’t drag eleven-stone men off into the woods, leaving nothing but a slick of blood behind. Couldn’t, as far as Tom knew. They were too small – that’s what Goodsir had said. Tom didn’t like to dwell on the implication of that fact – that whatever had killed Graham Gore was bigger than a bear.

It was better that than Hickey’s explanation, though. _“The board_ did _tell us to run, sirs.”_ Tom curled his lip. Insufferable man. Had to make everything about him. Him and that stupid fucking ghost story. Tom didn’t even think there’d _been_ a ghost; he suspected Hickey had faked the whole thing.

_Hell of a fake, though,_ said the voice in the back of his mind. _Difficult to orchestrate what we all experienced in the attic._

“Shit!”

Ned winced, and Tom pulled back as he realized he’d been pressing the alcohol wipe rather roughly into his cut.

“Sorry,” he said. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

Internally, he kicked himself. _What is wrong with you?_

“S’okay.” Ned opened his mouth, flexing his muscles to disperse the sting of the alcohol. Tom discarded the alcohol wipe and took out a Band-Aid, unsteadily opening the packaging.

“At least it’s clean, eh?” he said, forcing a smile. 

Ned returned the smile, then relaxed his face as Tom leaned in to apply the bandage. He smelled of sweat and damp foliage, and he’d grown a thin stubble in the course of the day. Tom could feel his breath and his slight, fidgety movements as he smoothed down the Band-Aid, and it struck him suddenly just how easily it could have been Gore here in his place – Gore here, beat up but warm and breathing and full of life, and Ned in _his_ place, lying in a snowy ditch somewhere in a puddle of his own blood.

_Jesus Christ._ Tom flinched, his fingers skipping over Ned’s skin as he sucked in a sharp breath. So easy, it would have been so easy to lose him – with three people out there, Ned’s chances of survival had been less than fifty percent. How lucky he was to be alive, given such odds. Tom’s chest constricted, squeezing the air from his lungs as he thought about what would have happened had Ned not come back from that hike. How he would have reacted; how he would have felt.

_There is so much I never would have been able to say._

“You alright?”

Tom blinked, Ned’s hazel eyes swimming back into focus. Ned tilted his head, peering into Tom’s face, and offered another fleeting smile.

“Earth to Tom?”

“I’m fine.” The words came out a little sharp, and Tom quickly backpedaled, pulling his lips into what he hoped more closely resembled a smile than a grimace.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just – long day.”

Ned scoffed. “Tell me about it.” He dropped his gaze, picking dirt from beneath his fingernails. Tom watched him, noting the subtle unsteadiness that hadn’t seemed to leave him since he’d come tumbling into the foyer half an hour ago. He felt it in himself, too, a shakiness that seemed emanate from his very core, leaving him permanently destabilized. It was like something had changed in the lodge, something beyond Gore’s disappearance. Something fundamental. 

He scooted closer, covering Ned’s hands with one of his own. Ned looked up, and Tom leaned forward, meeting his gaze.

“Ned,” he murmured, “what did you see out there?”

Ned’s jaw tightened. He looked down at their joined hands, at Tom’s slender fingers curled around his much larger ones, neither of them steady. In the silence, Tom could hear the alarm clock ticking on the bedside table, could hear the snow beating against the windowpane like tiny rapping fingernails.

Finally, Ned swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can describe it, sure; I know what my eyes perceived, but I don’t know what it _was._ I still can’t work that bit out.”

“Then describe it,” Tom said.

Ned took a shaky breath. “It was corporeal, I know that,” he said. His brows drew together, giving his face a look of intense focus. He was all contrast and angles, the dim light from the bedside lamp casting the left side of his face into deep shadow while the other side remained brightly highlighted. He looked like a painting; realistic, but not quite real.

“It was corporeal,” he repeated, the words coming slowly, as if he was having a hard time figuring out which ones to say. “But it didn’t have a proper shape. Like, it had a body, but I couldn’t tell what kind. At times it seemed tall, but then it would go all low and squat, and seem to lengthen out.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And then there was the way it moved, like – like it didn’t _need_ to move, it just made the rest of the world move around it.”

“Like –” _Like a ghost?_ Tom wanted to say it, but he bit down on the words. Now was not the time to give credence to _that_ story.

“Like it was present, but it wasn’t really there at all,” Ned said, lifting his gaze. “It seemed; I don’t know – _disconnected_ in a certain way. Like, it took Graham, and it chased Goodsir and I all the way down the mountain, so clearly it could see us, or sense us, or something, but when it got close enough to catch me, it – _didn’t.”_ He grimaced as he spoke, his lips pulling back to reveal his teeth in a semi-hostile snarl, like he was disgusted with the very memory of it.

“It was like it couldn’t smell me. Like it’d lost me, even though I was right under its nose. It should’ve been able to smell me, it should’ve known I was there. It should’ve –”

He stopped. That bit didn’t need much explanation; Tom knew what it was he wanted to say.

_It knew Gore was there._

Tom squeezed Ned’s hand. “But it didn’t,” he said. “That’s the important bit. It didn’t, and you’re here, and you’re _safe_. It’s over, and you are safe now.” 

Ned nodded, slowly. He slid one of his hands out from his lap and laid it over Tom’s, stroking his knuckles gently with his thumb.

“Right,” he said. “It’s – it’s over now.”

He paused, and then scoffed, the sound more a sharp exhalation than anything, but there was a certain acerbic amusement to it that made Tom tilt his head.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m just –” Ned shook his head again. “This isn’t how I imagined this.”

“This?”

Ned gestured to Tom, and then himself. “This,” he said. “Us – I don’t know, getting to talk. Alone. When I signed up for this trip I thought maybe, but –”

Tom’s heart thumped. “What?” he asked. “What did you think?”

Ned looked at him, and his lips curled into a shy smile, stretching the Band-Aid on his cheek.

“Nothing,” he said. Averting his gaze, he glanced down at the first-aid kit. “I’m sorry you got stuck with nursing duty, by the way.”

Tom blinked. “What?” _Don’t change the subject, damn you._

Ned gestured to his face. “This,” he said. “I could’ve done it myself, you know; just because Crozier said to –”

“It’s fine.” Tom shook his head, fiddling with the Band-Aid wrapper in his hand. “I don’t mind, really. I’m happy to.”

Ned nodded slowly. “Right,” he said. “Well, thank you. You’ve done a – a bang-up job.”

Tom couldn’t help the little laugh that bubbled up in him at that. It came out as a snort, and Ned pulled a face.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

“Nothing, nothing.” Tom tossed aside the crumpled-up wrapper. “You’re an idiot, that’s all.”

Ned drew back, but he seemed to pick up on Tom’s joking tone, because he didn’t look offended. He lifted his chin, looking down his nose at Tom with eyes that had something of a playful glitter in them, a boldness Tom only ever saw in fits and starts. It was something Tom tried hard to provoke, and though it could be hard to break through Ned’s dour, professional façade, Tom fancied he was getting quite good at it.

_Thank god I have the opportunity to keep trying._

The thought broke through Tom’s levity like a stiff breeze, knocking him off-balance. He thought again of Gore, and of Ned suffering his same fate, and then suddenly, with the dizzying clarity of a revelation, he understood his anxiety, understood the reason for it.

_It’s you._

Tom’s fingers stilled, his jumpiness replaced with perfect calm as the realization came over him, breaking slowly like a winter dawn. It wasn’t anxiety _about_ Ned that was so troubling, it was anxiety _for_ him. It was the new and unwelcome knowledge that if Ned had been lost in that storm instead of Gore, a void would have opened in Tom’s life, big and soft and hazel-eyed. All those stolen glances and personally delivered cups of coffee, fixed with precise amounts of sugar and French vanilla creamer; all the playful flirtation and revealing outfits and carefully orchestrated casual touches – all of it would evaporate, leaving behind nothing but unactualized possibilities.

The threat of what might have been – that’s what it was. 

Ned was still looking at him with that tentative playfulness in his eyes, his soft mouth turned up in a slanted smile. Even tired and bandaged and smeared with dirt – or perhaps because of those things – he was terribly handsome; achingly so, if Tom was being honest with himself. He was so beautiful and so gentle and so, so _fragile,_ and Tom thought that if anything were to happen to this man, he might just shatter.

Tom swallowed. His throat had gone dry, and his heart was flailing in his chest.

_Fuck,_ he thought. _That’s new._

“Ned –” He paused. He’d never done this before; had never felt the urge to be so open with someone. What was he even supposed to say? _“I just realized how fleeting life is, and I think I want to spend mine with you?”_ No, that would never do.

Ned’s smile broadened, forming a single dimple at the corner of his lopsided mouth. Tom’s heart squeezed, constricting so hard it hurt. He leaned back in, placing his hand on the bed beside Ned’s thigh to brace himself as he pushed gently into Ned’s space, offering in gesture what he couldn’t manage to say in words.

He felt Ned hesitate, felt the slight stiffening of his body that denoted uncertainty. But the resistance was brief, and then he was coming up to meet Tom, leaning into his presence with a sigh that sounded like relief.

Their lips met, soft at first, just a chaste press of skin on skin. Tom held back to gauge Ned’s reaction – that was his way; lead by following the other person’s cues. Don’t be too much at first; read the signs. A divination of breath and heartbeats.

Ned tilted his head, parting his lips slightly for Tom. His hands disentangled themselves from Tom’s, one moving to curl around Tom’s arm while the other cupped his head, his fingers threading gently into Tom’s hair. Tom slid his hand from the bed onto Ned’s leg, dragging his fingers lightly over the curve of his thigh, and released a sigh, breathing his want against Ned’s lips.

_“Tom.”_

The way Ned spoke his name sent heat straight to Tom’s center, electrifying his nerves as if someone had flipped a universal switch somewhere within him. They broke apart – only marginally, barely an inch between them – and Tom felt the trembling in Ned’s breaths as he nudged his nose against Tom’s cheek.

“Didn’t think you fancied me that way,” he said, the words chased by a breath of nervous laughter. Tom snorted and slid his hand a little further up Ned’s thigh.

“Then you truly are an idiot,” he said. “A complete dunce, actually. Thick as cement.”

Ned laughed again, low in his chest. “It’s just that you’re so –”

“So what?” Tom shifted, slowly leveraging Ned back onto the bed as he straddled him. He slid his hands up Ned’s chest, fingering the collar of his flannel. “So…this?”

“So beautiful,” said Ned. His gaze dropped to Tom’s throat, to the sliver of skin visible beneath his satin blouse, before coming back up to rest on his eyes, his lips. “So inaccessible.”

Tom laughed, settling himself in Ned’s lap. “I am only one of those things, Ned Little,” he said. He leaned down to kiss Ned, moving his lips slowly in a motion that both surrendered and claimed at once. Lingering afterwards, he smiled. “I’ll always make myself accessible to you.”

Ned exhaled shudderingly. His hands migrated downwards, splaying at the small of Tom’s back to press them more closely together, and when he kissed Tom again there was more heat in it, more need. He opened his mouth readily, melting into submission and pouring out a succession of sweet, lovely sounds that only stoked the fire in the pit of Tom’s stomach. He could feel Ned’s need pressing elsewhere, too, the hardness in his jeans rubbing deliciously against Tom’s thigh, but it wasn’t time for that – not quite yet. Ned was uncharted territory; there was mapping still to be done.

Tom pressed gently against Ned’s shoulders, pushing him back onto the bed. He went willingly, falling back against the pillows without breaking the kiss, and immediately set about tugging Tom’s blouse free of his trousers. Tom let him; let him slide his hands up beneath the fabric and spread their warmth across his skin, but he held back on returning the favor for now. In his mind, tonight was the only thing he could be certain of when it came to Ned Little, and so he had every intention of taking his time.

He closed his eyes, letting instinct take over. His lips traced Ned’s jaw, his neck, that soft bit of skin behind his ear, memorizing the taste of him. Hands mapped chest and shoulders, hips pressed to thighs. His own need was growing intolerable, but that only heightened the sensations, made his inevitable release all the more tantalizing. He rocked his hips against Ned’s, enjoying the friction and the desperate, hitching moans it elicited from Ned, and brought his lips back up to Ned’s.

“Tom –” Ned spoke weakly against Tom’s mouth. “Please –”

Tom slid his tongue into Ned’s mouth, silencing him as he simultaneously put a hand at the apex of his thighs, gently squeezing the hardness there. Ned made a deliciously undignified noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

_“Tom.”_ That was almost a whine, almost a plea. Ned lifted his hips, pressing into Tom’s hand, and curled his fingers into Tom’s hair. “Tom, please let me –”

Tom rubbed Ned through his jeans, sliding his fingers up to his fly. He was experienced here, and a few deft movements saw the impediment of the jeans removed. When he took Ned in hand the touch elicited a sound so beautiful it traveled up Tom’s spine like an electric shock.

“Would it help,” he murmured against Ned’s lips, “if I told you that I’ve wanted you just as badly?” He gave Ned an experimental tug, receiving a gratifyingly inarticulate response. “That I’ve admired you from afar since the first time I laid eyes on you, and that I’ve been equally skeptical that you felt the same way?” Another tug; another unsteady moan. Tom withdrew, looking down on Ned.

“Is this what you meant?” he asked, his mind suddenly putting two and two together. “Earlier, I mean – when you signed up for this trip, you thought, ‘maybe.’” He rubbed his thumb over the tip of Ned’s cock. “Was this the maybe?”

Ned hesitated, then nodded.

“Before the trip, too,” he said. “I mean, I wanted – but I never thought you’d want it too.”

Tom laughed, catching his lips in another kiss. “As I said,” he murmured. “A complete dunce.”

Abruptly releasing Ned’s cock, Tom sat back on his heels and shucked off his blouse, tossing it aside with a flick of the wrist. He made quick work of Ned’s buttons, dragging his fingers over the soft hair covering his chest, and then slunk backwards, coming to hover above Ned’s hips. Ned watched him at first, but his head fell back as Tom took him in his mouth. His fingers curled tightly into the sheets, and he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning out loud. Were it not for the presence of other people in the rooms next door, Tom would have encouraged him to do otherwise. He would dearly love to hear Ned sing.

There was still a draft in Tom’s bedroom – they would notice it when they woke in the morning, tangled in each other’s limbs and the bunched-up sheets and that awful, scratchy wool blanket. But in the moment, Tom was sweating, and if he did feel the cold, he didn’t care. He’d forgotten what it was like to be cold. He’d even forgotten about poor Gore – a welcome distraction, given the circumstances.

But as the thing out in the snow knew well, nothing could stay forgotten.

At least, not for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings (chapter 5): alcohol consumption, per usual | some description of minor injuries | blood | semi-explicit sexual content 
> 
> Y'all can have a little Joplittle smut, as a treat. ;)
> 
> __________
> 
> If you're enjoying Tragedy, consider giving it a [reblog](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/fulminatiion/643511047676936192) over on Tumblr!
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to [my amazing beta](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/winedark-maverick)
> 
> [you can find the Tragedy! playlist here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6MIWnB6NVskBmnnNtwdRe2?si=g-OqulPdRYaEb8Gx9YjaVA)


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